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DOROTHY QUICK

Seabury Quinn

Edmond Hamilton

Vennette Herron

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T he moon terror, by A. G.

Birch, is a stupendous weird-scientific
novel of Oriental intrigue to gain control of
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ALSO-OTHER STORIES

In addition to the full-length novel, this
book also contains three shorter stories by
well-known authors of thrilling weird-
scientific fiction:

OOZE, by Anthony M. Rud, tells of a
biologist who removed the growth limita-
tions from an amoeba, and the amazing
catastrophe that ensued.

PENELOPE, by Vincent Starrett, is a
fascinating tale of the star Penelope, and
the fantastic thing that happened when the
star was in perihelion.

AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOURTH

DIMENSION, by Farnsworth Wright, is
an uproarious skit on the four-dimensional
theories of the mathematicians, and inter-
planetary stories in general.

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A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e’er bmeath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover.

— Coleridge: Kubla Khan.

W. T.- 1

A MAGAZINE OF THE BIZARRE AND UNUSUAL

REGISTERED IN U.S. PATENT OFFICE

Volume 31

CONTENTS FOR JANUARY, 1938

Number 1

Cover Design M. Bnmdage

"The Witch’s Mark" — "He saw behind the loveliness that was hers, and knew her for a witcH’

”Her Demon-Lover” Virgil Finlay

Illustration of a passage in Coleridge’s "Kubla Khan"

The Witch’s Mark Dorothy Quick

Shamus O’Brien risked his very soul for the red lips of Cecily Maltby — a strange and curious tale

The Canal H. P. Lovecraft

Verse

The House of Living Music Edmond Hamilton

A tragic weird-scientific tale about a composer who could re-create all visible things in sound

Roads Seabury Quinn

A reverent weird tale of Yuletide and the Crucifixion, and a gladiator from the Northland

The Hairy Ones Shall Dance Cans T. Field

A tale of terror and sudden death, and the frightful thing that laired in the Devil’s Croft

Toean Matjan Vennette Herron

A story of Java, and the incredible thing that the natives implicitly believe

The Voyage of the Neutralia (end) B. Wallis

An epic of weird adventure and a strange cruise to other planets

Lost Dream Emil Petaja

Verse, in memory of the late H. P. Lovecraft

The Light Was Green John R. Speer

A brief weird railroad story by the author of "Symphony of the Damned"

Valley of Bones David H. Keller 102

What weird tragedy took place in that African graveyard of a murdered people?

The Third Interne Idwal Jones 106

A brief tale of a surgical horror in the Asiatic wastes of northern Russia

Weird Story Reprint;

Ethan Brand Nathaniel Hawthorne 110

A chapter from an abortive romance

The Eyrie 122

Our readers discuss the magazine

Published monthly by the Popular Fiction Publishing Company, 2457 East Washington Street, Indianapolis, Ind. Entered
as second-class matter March 20, 1923, at the post olficc at Indianapolis, Ind., under the act of March 3, 1879. Single copies,
25 cents. Subscription rates: One year in the United States and possessions, Cuba, Mexico, South America, Spain, $2.50;-
Canada, $2.73; elsewhere, $3.00. English office: Otis A. Kline, c/o John Paradise, 86 Strand, W. C. 2, London. The pub-
lishers are not re^onsiblc for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts, although every care will be taken of such material while in
their possession. The contents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright and must not be reproduced either wholly or in
part without permission from the publishers.

NOTE — All manuscripts and communications should be addressed to the publishers* Chicago office at 840 North Michigan
Avenue, Chicago, 111, FARNSWORTH WRIGHT, Editor.

WEIRD TALES ISSUED 1st OF EACH MONTH

514

By DOROTHY QUICK

Shamus O’Brien risked his very soul for the red, red lips of Cecily Maltby —
a strange and curious story about a beautiful, evil
woman with red-gold hair

T he first time Shamus sav*' Cecily
Maltby he thought her easily the
most fascinating woman he had
ever seen. He weighed her charm against
her beauty and found they balanced each
Cither perfectly.

The second time he thought of Isolde
— Isolde of the red-gold hair and the
snow-white skin. Cecily Maltby’s skin
was so white that a camellia seemed yel-
low against it. She had a slim figure
from which her breasts curved lushly, and

WEIRD TALES

she moved with the unconscious grace
Isolde must have had.

The third time he saw her he was con-
scious that her lips were much too red,
that they looked as though blood had
been smeared across them. Quite sud-
denly he forgot her beauty and charm and
felt an odd repugnance toward her, all
the more odd because her great eyes were
looking at him with the expression a wo-
man wears when she loves a man and is
willing to let him see that she does.

Shamus O’Brien was an author of sorts.
That is, he lived on an income left him
by his father and played at writing be-
cause he had nothing better to do and was
always in hopes of striking literary gold.
He had an attractive apartment in the
East Sixties and was popular enough to
have his engagement book filled far
ahead.

He had a sense of humor. His father
was Irish and his mother French. He was
six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with reg-
ular features and brown hair that v/ould
wave no matter how he struggled to make
it lie flat. All in all, he was quite an or-
dinary young man of twenty-seven and
there was no apparent reason why he
should have been thrown into such a
maelstrom of curious events.

They began on the Friday morning
when Jim Blaketon came breezing into
his living-room.

"Hi, old Stick-in-the-Mud, I’ve come
to dig you out,” he shouted, his words
reverberating among the Italian antiques.

"I’ve just settled in for the week-end.
I’ve got a swell idea for a new story.”
Shamus waved a box of newly sharpened
pencils at his friend.

"Rats! You’re too good-looking to de-
prive the debutantes of for anything so
inconsequential as a story. Come on, my
lad, Trudy’s giving a house-party. She’s
a man short, so she sent me an S. O. S. to
get you.”

Shamus liked Trudy Rose. She was a
swell girl and they’d always been friends.

"Why didn’t she call me herself?”
Shamus asked.

Jim laughed. "I just happened to be
talking to her. Long-distance calls cost
money these days.” 'Then his face so-
bered. "If you must have the truth, I
think Trudy’s a bit shy of you. Unre-
quited love turns sour after a point.”

Unrequited love! Trudy in love with
him? Shamus had never dreamed of such
a thing. Trudy and he had been pals,
playmates, for years. He couldn’t picture
his life without her, and yet often he
didn’t see her for weeks. He conjured up
a vision of her piquant rounded face with
its turned-up nose, friendly smile and
clear blue eyes. She was like Diana, slen-
der and unawakened. It had never oc-
curred to him to light the spark that
would change her from the cold moon-
maiden into a warm, passionate woman.
If it hadn’t been for Jim, he would have
gone on playing big brother to Trudy in-
definitely. But now he suddenly realized
how lost he would be without her, and
his heart beat faster at the idea of Trudy
— and love!

He looked at Jim with perhaps a little
of the elation he felt showing on his face,

"Shamus O’Brien,” Jim said sternly,
"if you ever so much as hint to Truciy
that I’ve let the cat out of the bag. I’ll
tar and feather you! I just couldn’t keep
my mouth shut and let a fine romance go
to waste for want of proper direction.”

"I never dreamed ”

"You wouldn’t. You’re kind of dumb
where women are concerned. That’s why
I spoke up. I knew you had a soft spot
for Trudy and that you’d never find it un-
less it was pointed out to you.”

With the perfect understanding there
sometimes is between men who have done
college and night-life together, they read
each other’s thoughts. Then Jim slapped

THE WITCH’S MARK

Shamus on the bade and pulled him to-
ward the bedroom, talking as they went.

"Come on, pack the bag. I’ll guaran-
tee you a moon tomorrow night so you
can propose.”

T here was a moon, and Trudy was
beside Shamus, her arm linked in his
— but he did not propose. In the mean-
time he had met Cecily Maltby.

Jim and he motored up to Ridgefield,
where the Roses had a large ccnintry estate
outside the little Connecticut town. They
used it only for spring and fall and occa-
sional winter housewarmings, but it was
always lovely. Now, in the beginning of
June, it was particularly so. When Sha-
mus and Jim drove up under the rambler-
covered porte<ochere, Trudy followed
the butler to the door. She had on a soft
yellow sports dress that brought out the
deep brown of her hair and eyes. She was
lovely to look at as she stood in the door-
way with the wind ruffling her curls and
whipping her skirt back against her slen-
der legs.

"Shamus! I’m so glad Jim actually got
you.” 'There was real joy in her eyes that
he would not have noticed ordinarily.

He caught her two hands and raised
them one after the other to his lips. It
was the first gesture of sentiment there
had ever been between them and he made
it as a tribute to the girl he had decided
to make his wife.

A swift color flooded Trudy’s cheeks
and she looked as though she had been
suddenly given a passport to the Seventh
Heaven. 'Then Jim swept down upon
them and presently they were all insidOj
tlie center of a laughing, welcoming
group.

It was several minutes before Shamus
saw Cecily. When he did, she was stand-
ing over against the mantelpiece. The
gray stone threw her red hair into start-
ling relief as it silhouetted her figure.

She wore some kind of clinging green
material tied around her waist with a
gold cord. Shamus couldn’t tell what
type of dress it was — sport or afternoon,
morning or evening — he only knew that
she looked like Undine standing there
and that when she spoke her voice was
like the rippling of deep waters over sil-
ver stones. Sweet and mellow it vibrated
against his heart-strings as she acknowl-
edged Trudy’s introduction.

She didn’t move from her place by the
mantel, nor did she make the slightest
effort to call Shamus to her. Neverthe-
less, when he had acquired a highball, he
found himself beside her.

"Can I get you something?” he asked,
matter-of-factly.

"Not now,” she said in that deep
melodious voice, "but perhaps some

day ” She looked at Shamus, and

there were smoldering fires behind her
eyes.

It was an odd thing to say, "Not now
— later perhaps” would have been tlie
expected thing — "but perhaps some
day ” with the blank spaces left un-

filled! Shamus didn’t understand it; he
didn’t want to — ^he only wanted to hear
her speak again.

She gratified his unspoken wish.

"You are Irish, are you not? ’There’s a
touch of the Gaelic ateut you.”

"My name could have told you that.”
Shamus wondered if one could tease a
goddess.

"Your name?” she repeated, puzzled,
"I did not even hear it. Last names mean
so little. What is your given name?”

"Shamus — Shamus O’Brien. That con-
firms the Irish, doesn’t it?”

"There have been many men in Ireland
who bore that name. One Shamus, who
was very like you, wooed the King’s
daughter, Deidre; wooed her away from
all the King’s sons who sought her hand.
Though he was but a farmer’s lad, tlie

WEIRD TALES

Princess Deidre loved him and came
down from her golden throne to take him
in her arms. Do you remember that?”

All at once the room in the Connecti-
cut mansion was gone. Shamus seemed to
be out in the open spaces with the music
of Cecily Maltby’s voice singing in his
ears. The sky was blue and there w'as
green grass all around him and some-
where in the distance the sound of waves.
And in his arms was a slender loveliness
with a cloud of red-gold hair that sent a
wave of fragrant scent through his nos-
trils, a strange unearthly perfume that he
knew even in that moment was unforget-
table. There was a beating in his ears, a
thumping of his heart. The loveliness in
his arms raised her head, the cloud of red-
gold hair fell back revealing the white
face — of Cecily Maltby. The past and the
present surged about Shamus in a mad
spinning whirl. Presently out of it he
heard Cecily’s voice saying triumphantly,
"You do remember!”

He was back in the room at Ridgefield
once more, looking at Cecily, who re-
garded him with strange languorous eyes.
From somewhere behind, Trudy’s voice
called, "Shay!”

He started to turn. As he did so, Cec-
ily put her hand on his arm.

"Some day you will remember even
more, and I will tell you the rest of the
story.”

He bent over, and as his head came
level with hers, he caught a whiff of that
unforgettable perfume. Then her hand
left his arm, and in some curious way he
knew he was free to answer Trudy’s call.

That was the first time he saw Cecily
Maltby.

W HAT happened between then and
the time they went to dress for
dinner, Shamus didn’t know. He was in
a kind of daze. Nobody else noticed it,
apparently, for he mixed highballs for

several people and added his share to the
banter that was going on. But that was
with only part of his mind, another part
— a tiny part that he had never known ex-
isted — was listening to the music of Cec-
ily Maltby’s voice, was remembering the
lo\'eliness he had held in his arms. Only
a second more and he w’ould have kissed
the full red lips.

An overwhelming longing swept over
him. Shamus shook himself as a terrier
w'hose coat is overburdened with water
might do. 'This was foolish. He’d had a
long ride, and listening to an old Irish
legend had made him dream day-dreams.
It could be nothing else. Only why had
the girl in the vision had the face of Cec-
ily instead of Trudy? Trudy was the girl
he loved. He had definitely decided that
on the way up. And then — oh, it was all
too silly! Just because Cecily Maltby was
easily the most beautiful, charming wo-
man he had ever seen, he mustn’t take her
too seriously. Incongruously he wondered
how old she was.

Jim and he shared a room; so while
they struggled into their tuxedos, Shamus
asked him who Cecily Maltby was and
how she happened to be there, in a tone
it was an effort to make casual.

"Just one of Trudy’s friends,” Jim re-
plied. "Nobody knows much about her.
She has a house not far from here — took
possession of it several months ago and
kept to herself. Trudy met her one day
while she was walking through the
woods, felt sorry for her lonesome state
and invited her for tea or something.
She’s had her here quite often. You
know Trudy’s soft heart.”

Shamus didn’t say anything. Fortu-
nately for his curiosity, Jim went on.

"I don’t like her much. ’There’s some-
tliing about her that gives me cold shivers
up and down the spine and makes me re-
member that lady vampires are supposed
to have red hair.”

THE WITCH’S MARK

Shamus laughed. 'Tlie idea of Cecily
Maltby being even remotely associated
with a vampire struck him as excessively
funny.

Jim joined in a good hearty guffaw,
then suddenly turned serious.

"I don’t think the lady’s up to any
good. She lives alone except for a gaunt
foreign maid she brought with her when
she came.”

"Sounds odd,” Shamus said, as he put
the finishing touches to his tie. But he
was thinking more of the strange, unfor-
gettable perfume and the day-dream it
had evoked than of what Jim was saying.

"She’s a 'mystery woman’ all right,”
Jim went on, "and I wish Trudy had
never met her. Trudy’s like a beautiful
rose blooming in the sunshine, and that
Maltby wench is one of those orchids that
hang from trees in South America, ex-
otic, gorgeous, but they draw living
things into their mouths for food, attract
them by tlie strange perfume they send
forth.”

Shamus started. How strange that Jim
should compare Cecily Maltby to a flower
emitting strange perfume — almost his
very words, remembering the day-dream
and the loveliness he had held in his
arms! He shrugged his shoulders, an-
noyed with himself. This was utter fool-
ishness!

"You must have been delving into
weird literature,” he told Jim, "what
with red-haired vampires and orchids
that ”

Jim eyed his friend shrewdly. "I saw
you talking to her. Don’t, my boy —
don’t! Tell Trudy you love her, and stay
out in the sunshine — it’s better than the
jungle depths.”

"You talk as though you were my
grandfather,” Shamus scoffed, although
Jim’s words had rung a warning bell in
that corner of his brain that he had only
discovered tliis afternoon. "I told you on

the way up I was going to propose to
Trudy. Did you ever see anyone look
sweeter than she did standing in the door-
way when we arrived.?”

"Never!” 'There was something in
Jim’s tone that made Shamus wonder.

"Jim, do you, by any chance ”

"I did, but it was no go. That’s how I
knew you were the one she cared for —
she told me. Trudy’s a swell girl! Yoii
needn’t get steamed up over me, though.
I’m going to marry Margery Standish. It
will be announced next week. I love
Margery and we’ll be happy — but I’m
still fond of Trudy, fond enough not to
want you to fall for eitlrer orchids or
vampires.”

For a long minute they looked into
each other’s eyes. 'Then Shamus said
blithely, in the way men have of cover-
ing real emotion, "You needn’t worry —
I love Trudy.” Their hands met in a
strong, solid clasp, as he added, "Con-
gratulations about Margery. She’s a
grand girl. I’m glad she and Trudy are
such good friends.”

"We’ll malce a swell quartette,” Jim
remarked, and Shamus agreed heartily.
He had completely forgotten Cecily, the
strange perfume and the vision he had
had,

T rudy was waiting for them when
they came downstairs.

"You’re going to sit on my right,
Shay,” she announced, slipping her arm
through his. Her eyes looked up at him
clearly, with no evasions.

"It’s more than I deserve. Trudy, I’ve
got something to tell you — a question to

ask ” He leaned toward her, so

close that he could have touclied her
brown curls with his lips.

"Shay!” Her eyes were glowing now
and a kind of inner light illuminated her
face. "Tell me now!”

"Can’t you guess?”

WEIRD TALES

"I might,” she sighed happily, "but
I’d rather hear.”

Just at tliat moment someone moved
out of the little group of people that were
clustered around the cocktails and came
toward them.

It was Cecily Maltby.

Cecily was in misty green chiffon that
clung to her revealingly. The dress
couldn’t be described. It was like the sea
as it rippled about her feet. Shamus
thought of Venus rising out of the wave
as he looked at her neck and arms emerg-
ing from the green material. Her face
had the beauty that poets sing of yet can
never wholly describe because of its intan-
gible loveliness. Her red hair was bound
about her head in two thick braids, like a
coronet. Her gray-green eyes looked at
Shamus with a strange, compelling glance,
but she spoke to Trudy, and her voice had
changed again. Now it was like the bub-
bling waters of a brook dancing down a
mountainside.

"You most come and make your guests
behave. Someone wants to put a bottle of
absinthe into the cocktails. Perhaps you
can exercise restraint, Trudy.”

Was there a challenge in her words?
There was none in her tone, only the
gay bubbling mountain brook sweeping
downward. But Shamus thought of a
stream he had once seen rushing down tlie
mountain, full, torrential, carrying great
trees in its wake, creating havoc as it
went.

He felt a sudden cold and caught
Trudy’s hand in his. It was w’arm, reas-
suring, just as her voice was, and comfort-
ingly natural.

"Come along then, we’ll see what we
can do.” Trudy kept her arm linked
through Shamus’ and stretched out her
free hand to Cecily.

Cecily gave Shamus a wise sidelong
glance and started over toward the group,

ignoring Trudy’s gesture. Without know-
ing why, Shamus was grateful that Cec-
ily’s long tapering fingers hadn’t touched
Trudy’s.

As they walked along, Trudy squeezed
tlie hand which was still holding hers.

"You’ll have to tell me later,” she
whispered.

"I certainly will,” he whispered back.

Just at that moment Cecily turned and
waited for them. There was an inscru-
table expression on her face, but Shamus
knew just as though she had spoken aloud
tliat he would never tell Trudy what was
in his mind, if Cecily could prevent it.

He knew, and all at once he felt afraid.

It was just then, as Trudy made a dive
to rescue the cocktail shaker, that he smelt
the strange unforgettable perfume once
more. It was as tliough someone had
sprayed a powerful atomizer over him so
that he was enveloped in a cloud of
nascent sweetness that was almost intoxi-
cating in its effect.

'Through the mist that surrounded him
he saw Cecily Maltby’s red lips curving
in a triumphant smile.

Something stirred in that comer of his
brain that he had never known he pos-
sessed until today. In some vague way he
knew a memory was there struggling to
come forth — a memory that belonged to
the vision he had had — that vision of the
green meadow and the blue, blue sky with
the sound of the waves and the loveli-
ness in his arms — a memory that went be-
yond that— which was tremendously im-
portant — ^lie couldn’t seem to grasp it.
He could only see Cecily Maltby’s face
witli its triumphant smile, and his fear
deepened until he wanted to cry out,
"Save me!” to Jim, to Tmdy, to anyone.
And just as he felt his tliroat muscles con-
strict to give the cry, he heard the butler
say, "Dinner is served. Miss Trudy,” and
the scent of the perfume died awa^. He

THE WITCH’S MARK

laughed at himself for an utter fool as he
walked unmolested toward Trudy.

That was the second time he saw Cec-
ily.

D inner was very gay. There were
just ten : nine house guests and Cec-
ily Maltby. Mr. and Mrs. Rose had gone
out to dine, so the young people had the
place to themselves, and mirth ran high.

There wasn’t any chance for individual
conversation. Cecily saw to that. She
dominated the conversation, did it with
a chance word here and there, unobtru-
sively, as though she were a juggler keep-
ing nine balls bouncing in the air with no
effort at all. Her balls were people and
she juggled them around as she pleased.

While this was going on, Shamus
reached under the table and held Trudy’s
hand. A kind of contentment flowed
from her fingers to his. He felt a sense
of security and almost forgot Cecily’s eyes
resting on him from the other end of the
table.

Cecily looked like a queen as she sat in
the high-backed chair, her head crowned
with braids. Like a queen she looked over
her subjects, insolently, except when her
glance touched Shamus. Then there was
something in her eyes under their straight
brows and heavy lashes that he could not
read, nor did he want to. He was con-
tent to sit with Trudy’s hand in his. He
forgot to wonder about Cecily. He even
forgot to pay attention to the conversa-
tion. He only held Trudy’s hand tighter,
as though he were welding their fingers
together for ever and ever.

When the dessert was finished, Trudy
started to rise, but before she could do so
Cecily said quickly, "Can we not all have
coffee together? In my country we do not
separate the men and women as we do
sheep and goats.’’

Trudy acquiesced gracefully. Someone
asked Cecily where her country was and

she said, "I thought you knew, I am Hun-
garian.’’

Was it fancy, Shamus wondered, or
had he heard that certain parts of Hun-
gary were noted for vampires? It was at
that moment he decided Cecily’s lips were
too red. But he brushed the thought
away. What was the matter with him?
He wondered. He was acting as though
this were the Middle Ages instead of
1937. Seeing visions, smelling strange
perfumes, associating vampires with Cec-
ily Maltby! 'There definitely must be
something wrong with him — a touch of
liver probably. He’d see a doctor when
he got back to town.

Cecily was speaking, and now her voice
was as it had been when he first heard it,
like the rippling of deep waters over sil-
ver stones, and her gray-green eyes had
glints of the sea in them.

"It’s my turn to tell a story,’’ she said
to the crowd — but she looked at Shamus.

"Once there was a Princess of Ire-
land,” she began, and he wondered why
she was telling that story to the others,
wondered for a minute, tlien forgot every-
thing but the magic of her voice and the
tale she was telling. "Her name was De-
idre, and many were the kings’ sons who
sought her hand. Among her suitors was
a farmer’s lad, and because he was tall
and handsome with arms that were strong
for holding a woman and lips that were
eager to kiss, the Princess Deidre loved
him and came down from her golden
throne to take him in her swan-like
arms.”

It was the same story she had told him
before, almost the same words, and al-
ready Shamus could hear the singing in
his ears and the faint, distant sound of
the waves.

Her voice went on, water dripping
slowly on the silver stones, dripping into
that far corner of his brain, awakening it.

"Then all the king’s sons who had

WEIRD TALES

sought her hand were angry and they
went to the King who was Deidre’s father
and tliey said, 'This is an ill thing your
daughter has done. She has scorned us
for a farmer’s lad. It will mean war.’

"The King was sore beset, for he loved
his daughter and he loved his kingdom,
but in the end he loved his kingdom
more; for he called Deidre to him and she
came with her red-gold hair in two long
braids about her head, for she was no
longer a maid and could not let its flam-
ing glory loose. And with her was the
farmer’s lad, straight and strong, with
his arms to hold and his lips to kiss that
had won the Princess.’’

G radually as Cecily talked, Shamus
let go his hold of Trudy’s hand.
Little by little his fingers unclasped until
finally his arms rested on the table and
his eyes met the curious gray-green ones
of Cecily Maltby. It seemed to him as
though in the whole room tliere were
only he and Cecily, that the otliers were
not there at all, though he could see their
tense faces as they listened to the magic
of Cecily’s voice continuing her tale.

"The King looked at them standing
together and he said, 'Give up this far-
mer’s lad, my daughter.’

"Deidre shook her head. 'We have
gone beyond that, my father,’ she said
proudly. ’He is mine for now and all
time to come.’ ’’

Through the singing in his eyes and
the dripping of Cecily’s words, Shamus
heard 'Trudy say, "Love is like that.” He
knew she meant it for him with one part
of him, but the other part was growing
stronger every minute and was so avid to
know the end of Cecily’s story that he ig-
nored the girl beside him.

Cecily went on. "The King said,
"Tliere is no use sending more arrows into
tlie air to be lost. I have spoken. Go, my
daughter, take witli you your farmer’s lad.

but only on pain of worse than death will
anyone give you food or drink or help of
any kind. Go now, before my heart
breaks in two.’

"And the Princess Deidre took the
hand of her farmer’s lad and walked out
into the world with him.”

"Did they live happily ever after.?” It
was Jim who asked the question — or was
it someone else.? Shamus didn’t know.
His mind was confused. He couldn’t see
the faces at the table, but only Cecily’s
gray-green eyes holding his.

"Yes,” she said slowly, "they lived
happily ever after.”

"But how could they when the King
forbade anyone to help them.?” It was
Trudy who questioned now.

"The Princess Deidre made a bargain
with the Little Folk, and the fairies let
them come to the Land of Heart’s Desire,
where they lived happily ever after,”
Cecily answered.

All at once the memory that had eluded
Shamus all evening came back. He leaned
on the table, toward Cecily, and cried ex-
citedly, "No, no! There’s more tlian that!
It wasn’t the Princess who made the bar-
gain — it was Shamus who bargained for
the Land of Heart’s Desire. He even
gained it for a little while; but soon he
found that he hadn’t bargained w'ith a
fairy, he’d bargained with a witch wo-
man, and the price he had to pay — was
the— the ”

Like a shutter dropping, something
closed between that far comer of his
mind and the rest of it — a door tliat
sealed away the end of the story. The
singing died out of his ears and he leaned
back in his clrair feeling very foolish.

"Shamus?” Trudy was puzzled. "Did
you say the farmer’s lad was named Sha-
mus.?” she asked Cecily directly.

"Of course I did,” Cecily laughed — a.
laugh that sounded like the vibrations of
a cjy’stal glass when it is stmck suddenly

THE WITCH’S MARK

— a beautiful laugh, but entirely with-
out mirth. "Of course I did. That’s why
I told the story, because of the coinci-
dence of the names.’’

Shamus knew she lied. Not once had
she mentioned a name — she had always
said "the farmer’s lad.’’

"It wasn’t nice of you, Mr. O’Brien,’’
she said lightly, "to spoil my happy end-
ing. It was such a nice story. You must
have heard a different version of the
legend.” Shamus felt her words as pierc-
ing as thin slivers of ice.

"Yes, Shay, tell us how yours went.”
Did he imagine it, or did Jim look to-
ward him curiously?

"I don’t seem to remember much more
than I said,” he managed to stammer.
'Tm very sorry. Miss Maltby.”

Cecily smiled. "It’s no matter. To
show that I forgive you, I’ll let you take
me home tonight.” She smiled again and
tlren rose from the table, her green skirts
swirling around her like rippling waves.
As she passed by Shamus, she brushed
against his hand, and it seemed to him as
though his fingers had been touched by
a cold ocean spray. He caught a whiff of
the strange unforgettable perfume, and as
he did so he thought he heard her say,
"What else do you remember, Shamus?”
but he was not sure whether she had spo-
ken or not; and before he could find out,
she had gone.

I ATER, other people came in for danc-
-^ing. The rugs were rolled up and
two colored men appeared to play. Sha-
mus wondered if Cecily would dance.
He could picture her swaying like a wood-
nymph while Pan piped his tunes, but
somehow couldn’t associate her with the
modern type of dancing.

She did not dance. She stood by the
fireplace surrounded by men. But though
she talked with them, Shamus felt her
eyes upon him, searching, probing; and

the far corner of his mind stirred under
her glance.

He danced with Trudy. Several times
the words, "I love you,” trembled on his
lips, but he did not say them. He knew
in some vague way that it was Cecily
Maltby’s sea-green eyes that kept the
words back, and he resented tliis, yet
couldn’t defy her by telling Trudy what
he wanted to. It v/as almost as though
Cecily had put a spell on him, binding
his tongue where Trudy was concerned —
a witch-woman’s spell. Shamus caught
his thoughts up sharply. This was all
nonsense! For the rest of the evening he
would forget Cecily, and above all things
he would not take Cecily home. He was
quite determined about that.

Nevertheless at midnight he found
himself walking through the woods with
Cecily.

"We’II just take this short cut,” she
had said. "It’s only a step this way,”
brushing aside his suggestion of running
over in the car.

He had submitted gracefully, for he
had realized he couldn’t get out of es-
corting her without a scene; so there was
nothing to do but make the best of it.

T here was a deep stillness in the
woods, whicli consisted mainly of
white birch trees. They walked along
quietly. Shamus was annoyed that de-
spite his resolve she had made him
bring her, and she was quite silent.
Wrapped in chiffons, she looked like a
wraith silhouetted against the white
trunks of the trees as she glided along.
Shamus thought of Rider Haggard’s Sie,
and decided Cecily had the same death-
less indescribable beauty that Ayesha had
had.

"I am glad you find me beautiful,”
Cecily said, and her voice was like gold-
en temple bells rung by a flower-scented
breeze.

WEIRD TALES

Shamus stopped short. "Can you read
thoughts.^” he exclaimed.

She stood facing him, "I can read
yours, Shamus, beause in the old days
we were one."

The strange, imforgettable perfume
was filling his nostrils, seeping into his
senses. He tried to think of Trudy, to
remember what Jim had said of an or-
diid luring living creatures into its
mouth by its scent, but he couldn’t.
Everything was swept away from him by
the wonder of Cecily Maltby.

She had thrown her draperies aside
and stood there against the white birdies
with the moonlight streaming down upon
her through an opening in the trees,
almost as though it were a spotlight.
Shamus knew she had on the green
dress she had worn at dinner — ^he could
see it rippling like tlie waves of the sea
about her feet — but it had suddenly be-
come transparent. Through it gleamed
Ae white lines of her body. It was as
though someone had tlirown a thin diif-
fon over a marble statue.

Desire such as he had never known
before swept over Shamus. He stretched
out his hands to her.

"Not yet,” she whispered, her voice
dianged again. It was like deep waters
falling over silver stones. "I am Deidre
— you are Shamus. Once before we loved
and lived, but we were parted, Shamus —
parted because you tired of my beauty —
and I have gone down through the ages
seeking you — seeking you "

"But you said we lived happily ever
after in the Land of Heart’s Desire.”

"Do you think I could tell tliem that
you left me because my beauty was a well-
known tale to you — that you went away
from the Land of Heart’s Desire out into
the world, and a curse was put upon me
to fiind you again, though it took age after
age, century upon century?”

The far corner of his brain was strug-
gling to come to life, struggling to tell
him something, fighting against the desire
for her that was mastering him, but he
shut his mind against it. Nothing mat-
tered of that dim past, nothing. He did
not care which was right — tlie long-dead
memories that were striving to revive
themselves, or Cecily Maltby’s story of a
curse, a seeking. They were in the past
and he was in the present, and he wanted
her — Cecily or Deidre — as he had wanted
no other woman.

"Give me your lips!” he begged.

She caught his hands in hers and
pressed them against her. His head swam
with the scent of her perfume. He for-
got everything, his doubts, his fears. In
all the world there was only this woman
and his longing for her.

"Give me your lips!” he cried again.

She swayed nearer, yielded herself to
his arms. But still he could not reach
her lips. Red, inviting they were there,
but he knew he could not touch them un-
til she gave him leave, and he knew he
should die of desire for her unless she
gave that leave.

She spoke again, and now her voice
was like the soft petals of roses falling
on emerald grass.

"Shamus, Shamus, you shall have my
lips if you desire them. You shall have
myself if you desire me. But this time
there must be no turning back, no rurming
away. I will roam the earth no more
under a curse. You must be mine utter-
ly, now and for ever. Tell me if you will
give me yourself in return for me!”

She brushed her lips against his cheek.
It was as tliough every fiber of his being
leapt to life at her touch. It was beyond
explaining, beyond knowing. It was
wonderfully glorious, and yet hideously
obscene. It gave him a glimpse into an

THE WITCH’S MARIC

unknown world, but when she took her
lips away he felt as though he were los-
ing all that made life worth while, and
the desire for her that possessed him was
intensified, until there was no longer any-
thing within him but that desire.

S HE stood a little away from him and
Shamus could no longer see the
swirling chiflPon of her dress; he could
only see her lush nudity, which was no
longer that of a statue but of a vibrantly
living woman. She shook her head, and
her hair fell about her in a red-gold
flame. Eve! She was Eve, the mother of
all living, and Lilith, the serpent woman
— both in one.

"Do you want me, Shamus,’’ she asked,
"enough to pay the price you must pay?”

"I want you,” he heard himself say. "I
will pay the price.”

She stretched out her arms, those won-
derful swan-like arms. She tlurew back
her red-gold hair.

"Then come to me, Shamus, and seal
the bargain with a kiss!” In her voice
was the music of the ages. It sang in his
ears, filling them just as the unforgettable
perfume filled his nostrils, and desire for
her filled his soul.

He caught her iti his arms. Her skin
was soft and lovely to touch. She took a
long lode of her hair and boimd it
about his throat, drawing his face nearer
and nearer to hers with the red-gold rope.

"At last, my Shamus!” he heard her
whisper through the mad beating of his
heart.

Their lips had almost touched when he
heard a voice — a far-off voice — calling.
He couldn’t make out what it was saying,
but he knew that the voice was calling
him.

He hesitated. Cecily pressed closer,
wound her white arms about him, tight-

ening the coils of her hair around his
throat.

"Shamus, Shamus, I will be yours if
you kiss me — kiss me ”

He bent closer; then he heard the far-
off voice distinctly. It was Jim’s voice
calling, "Shay! Shay! Where are you?”
and at the same time the far-off comer of
his mind broke loose the bonds he had
put upon it, and an almost forgotten
memory cried its warning, "If you kiss
her this time, you are hers for ever — ^you
will have lost your soul!” just as he sud-
denly realized that her hair was bound
so tight around his nedc that he could
hardly breathe.

"Shay! Shay!” Jim sounded nearer.

"Shamus — kiss me!” It was the voice
of tlie loveliness he held in his arms —
water dripping over silver stones, silver
stones with sharp jagged edges.

Shamus looked at her, and underneath
her beauty there was an avid rapacious
look. His throat began to throb agon-
izingly.

The desire died. Slowly, as dew drops
from a flower, it fell away.

"Shay! Shay!” Jim’s voice again.

"Here, Jim, here!” Shamus called back,
the words tearing through his tortured
throat.

"Coming!” The normality of Jim’s
voice recalled Shamus entirely to his
senses.

"You’d better put something around
you,” he said, letting go his hold of
Cecily Maltby, stepping back away from
her, putting up his hands to loosen the
tightness of her hair about his throat.

'Then he gasped with amazement, for
she stood in the moonlight with tlie greea
chiffon dress swirling about her feet like
the rippling waves of tlie sea, no longer
transparent, but exactly as it had been at
dinner — ^and the hair which he had just

WEIRD TALES

loosened from his throat was bound se-
curely and sedately about her head.

His throat still ached from the con-
striction, and yet there were the braids
coroneting her head. The red-gold hair
that he had seen loose, enveloping her,
that he had felt round his throat a second
ago, was now braided neatly. It didn’t
seem possible, and yet looking at her
Shamus saw a frustrated fury stamped on
her face that filled him with terror and
made him doubly glad to see Jim’s six-
feet-tw'O emerge from behind one of the
birch trees.

"My scarf is very warm,” Cecily said,
touching the green wrap, the anger gone
from her face. She turned to Jim, saying
casually, "Mr. O’Brien was worried for
fear the night air would be too cool for
me.”

Shamus had seen her throw that wrap
on the ground, and yet now it was about
her shoulders.

"I must be going mad,” he thought,
"unless — witch -woman, vampire — what
has happened to me tonight?”

"You’re wanted on the phone,' old
chap — long distance. Your publisher. I
rushed after you — he’s holding the wire.”
Jim’s sentences were disjointed. "You
run back. I’ll take Miss Maltby home.”

"Thanks!” Shamus squeezed Jim’s arm
hard in appreciation. Then he turned to
Cecily, "I’m sorry,” he said.

She looked at him quizzically; then her
lip curled a little.

"Are you?” she whispered, too low for
Jim to hear, and for a second Shamus
caught a whiff of tlie perfume again and
felt a touch of that mad desire. "I shall
see you soon, Shamus,” she said louder,
more confidently.

Tlien she turned and took Jim’s arm.
They w'alked off, and Shamus went stum-
bling back to the house in a kind of a
daze, wondering if he ever wanted to see
Cecily Maltby again.

T he party was still going on. Shamus’
mind was in such a turmoil that he
could not face the idea of seeing people,
especially Trudy. With the memory of
Cecily still in his mind, that glorious ob-
scenity that made his pulses leap, he
couldn’t look into Trudy’s clear eyes.

He went in by a little side door and
made his way upstairs quietly, unseen.
When he reached the room he shared
with Jim, he threw himself down on tlie
bed. His head ached, his throat throbbed;
he couldn’t see, he couldn’t think; he
could only remember Cecily’s white body
gleaming in the moonlight, her cloud of
red-gold hair, her outstretched arms.

Presently he heard the door open and
shut — and there was Jim standing over
him.

"God, man, what’s happened to your
neck?”

Shamus staggered up and went across
the room toward the mirror. With his
dinner jacket he had worn a low turned-
down collar; above it was a fiery red line
that ran, so far as he could see in the
mirror, completely around his neck. He
put his hand up to it. The skin was
smooth and cool to the touch, but the red
line was there, about an inch wide, flam-
ing against the tan of his throat, just
where Cecily Maltby’s hair had been
wound about his neck.

Suddenly the far comer of his mind
clicked again. "It’s tlie Witch’s Mark!”
he screamed, and tumbled over on the
floor at Jim’s feet.

W HEN Shamus came to, Jim was
bathing his head with a towel
wrung out in cold water.

"Is it still there?” he asked.

"It doesn’t rub off, if that’s what you
mean. I tried,” Jim answered grimly.
Then he helped Shamus into a big arm-
chair, "If I’d known what I was letting

THE WITCH’S MARK

you In for, I’d have left you in New
York.”

"It might have been better,” Shamus
admitted. "You came just in time to-
night.”

"I had a hunch. Of course, you know
I made up that story of the phone call,
but anyway it worked. Now, suppose you
tell me all about it.” He pointed to the
mark on his friend’s neck.

Shamus was feeling more normal now,
more Shay O’Brien and less Shamus the
farmer’s lad. He told Jim everything,
every small detail that he could remem-
ber, and when he’d finished he could see
that Jim was perfectly bewildered. Sha-
mus didn’t wonder — ^he was all mixed up
himself.

"What do you make of it?” Jim asked.

"I suppose it might be a case of mental
suggestion, that I saw what she wanted
me to see. It must have been that — she
wouldn’t have had time to braid her hair
between the time you called and ”

"I always thought she was a witch,”
Jim remarked truculently.

"There aren’t any witches now ”

"’There were. Anything that was, still
can be. You said yourself it was a witch’s
mark.” He pointed to the mark again.

"I didn’t say that — Shamus, the farm-
er’s lad, said it. He knows all about it.”
Shamus spoke slowly as though he was
searching for words. "See here, Jim, I
believe I was the Shamus in the legend.
In fact, I know I was. Reincarnation — or
if you won’t have that, perhaps it was
ancestral memories. There’s a man who
has a theory that our ancestral memories
are buried deep in the unused parts of
our brains. It may be the farmer’s lad
was an ancestor whose memories were
born with me; or it may be I am Shamus
himself come again, reborn just as she is
reborn. Or perhaps she never died —
witch-women don’t die!”

"You seem to know a lot about this.”
Jim watched Shamus closely.

"I don’t really. I’m only groping in
the dark, but I must talk while I can.
'This is the first time I’ve been really nor-
mal since I saw her. I’m afraid it won’t
last. See here, Jim, we’ve got to fight her,
otherwise I’ll lose my soul. The far-off
comer of my brain told me that. Wasn’t
there something, somewhere, about
witches — succubae — eating up spirits to
make them strong?”

"My God! Like the orchid luring in
the flies for food!”

"Like that. I may be crazy, but I be-
lieve that if I had kissed her to seal the
bargain, as she put it, my spirit would
have been drawn into hers, my body
would have died. Probably that’s the rea-
son for tills.” Shamus touched the mark
on his throat.

"It makes sense, if you’re goofy to start
with!” Jim paced up and down. Sud-
denly he stopped short. "What did you
mean at dinner when you busted up her
story of the legend, with the talk about
a bargain with a witch-woman?”

"I don’t know. That’s one of the mem-
ories, ancestral or actual. It didn’t finish.
'There’s something wrong with the legend
as she tells it. She’s twisted it for her
own reasons. I know that much. De-
spite the red-gold hair and the swan-like
arms, Cecily wasn’t Deidre — Deidre —

Deidre ” Shamus’ voice died away as

that far corner of his memory began to
wake again, to try to tell him

T he door opened. "Did you call me,
Shay?” Tmdy was standing on the
threshold, Tmdy with her gallant head
held high, her sweet lips curving in a
smile, and love shining from her eyes. "I
thought I heard you call me as I came
along the hall.”

Shamus sprang up, drew her into the
room, held her two hands close.

WEIRD TALES

"Trudy,” he said slowly, "Trudy, you
are Deidre.”

She looked amazed; then her eyes
widened in horror as she saw the mark on
his neck. Behind Shamus, Jim motioned
to her to be quiet.

"Trudy,” Shamus went on, "you saved
me once before. Will you save me
again?”

"Of course, Shay, of course.” She
spoke soothingly, as one might speak to a
sick child.

Now Shamus knew the trutli of tlie
legend. He knew w’hy Cecily had twisted
it, and he knew the depth of his danger.
But about his neck was the witch’s mark
and in his ears the faint singing he had
heard in his vision of the meadow; a faint
scent of strange unforgettable perfume
was drifting tlirough his nostrils — soon it
would permeate his being again. He
knew that, and he knew, too, that there
was little time — so little time!

"Trudy,” he cried, "Trudy — take me
in your arms — hold me fast!”

Beside Trudy he could see Cecily
Maltby standing, her body gleaming
whitely through the transparent green
chiffon, her red-gold hair floating about
her like a cloud, her milk-white arms ex-
tended toward him.

"Trudy, if you love me, take me — save

me! Trudy, for God’s sake ” Shamus

heard his own voice almost as though it
were not a part of him.

'Tlie perfume was stronger now; it was
deadening the part of his brain that could
think, shutting the door of the far corner
that was striving to save him.

Cecily’s voice, like deep waters falling
on silver stones, like golden temple bells,
ruffled by perfumed breezes, like soft rose
petals falling on emerald grass, came to
him.

"Shamus, Shamus — just one kiss to
seal the bargain — just one! You remem-
ber ”

He did remember, and he knew that
while tliere was still life and death and
tlie world continued to revolve he would
always remember. He took a step toward
Cecily. He couldn’t see Trudy any more;
he could only see the loveliness that
waited, arms outstretched, bidding him
come to her with honeyed magic in her
tones. He touched her, as he had touched
her before, felt her white arms twipe
themselves about his neck. In another
minute he would touch her lips — she
would be all his. Once again desire swept
over him — desire that must be satisfied
before it destroyed him utterly.

He forgot everj'thing but that consum-
ing desire. He wanted more than even
life itself to kiss those red, red lips.

All at once he felt himself being pulled
back from those milk-white arms, away
from tlie red, red lips. He heard another
voice — Trudy’s voice — saying, "Shay,
Shay, my darling! Shay, I love you — I
love you!”

He struggled to release himself from
tliis new hold. He wanted to lose himself
entirely in Cecily’s arms.

"Come to me, Shamus,” Cecily was
whispering. "I can open the door to un-
speakable delights, imbearable joys. I
will give you myself, myself, Shamus —
Shamus ”

Other arms were around his neck,
strong, sun-tanned arms, and a lithe mus-
cular figure was between him and tlie evil
loveliness. It was Trudy holding Shamus
fast, Trudy pressing herself against him,
kissing his eyes so he could no longer see
Cecily, and Trudy's voice, w’armly nor-
mal, crying, "Shay, Shay, my darling, I
love you — I love you — kiss me — kiss

me ” so that he could no longer hear

the melodious voice, though tlie last notes
of the music still vibrated through his
brain.

'The loveliness grew less distinct as
Trudy became more tangible. Still he

w T —

THE WITCH’S MARK

fought against Trudy, for the desire for
the loveliness was driving him mad.

"Come to me, Shamus — Shamus!” He
could still hear the magic voice, but it was
very faint, more like the echo of golden
bells than the actual chiming, and the
loveliness was far away, a vision dimly
seen through mist.

A command came to him from Cecily;
clear and sharp it rang in his brain, her
thoughts speaking to his. "Kill that
woman, then you can come to me — then
I can be yours.” And his hands went to
Trudy’s throat because the desire that was
ravaging him must be appeased — the
loveliness must be his no matter what the
cost.

As he pressed his hands about Trudy’s
neck, he could see the loveliness more
plainly, smiling triumphantly. And then
Trudy with a last desperate eflFort pulled
his face to hers and set her lips on his,
her fresh young lips, although already the
pressure of his hands on her throat was
cmel.

Trudy’s lips held his, and through
them her spirit reached out to the spirit
of Shamus.

He forgot the loveliness of Cecily
Maltby; his hands loosened, fell away
from Trudy’s throat. He held Trudy in
his arms drinking of her sweetness, her
love allaying the desire that Cecily’s evil
loveliness had aroused.

Suddenly Shamus realized it was Trudy
he loved — Trudy who loved him — that
they belonged to each other. There was
no longer desire, or perfume, no longer
the singing music. He looked up: the
evil loveliness was gone. Cecily Maltby,
the witch-woman, had been conquered by
love.

T rudy went limp. As she did so,
Shamus was aware that Jim was be-
side them. Jim took Trudy and laid her
on the bed.

W. T.— 2

"Is she ” Shamus couldn’t say the

word "dead” — he could hardly move.
He was weak and trembling witli the
emotion he had lived through. "Have I
killed her.^” he cried.

Jim looked down at the bed. "Trudy’s
all right, she's only fainted. She’ll come
to in a minute.”

Shamus began to speak, words rusliing
from his mouth like newly freed waters
that had been dammed up for a long
time. "Trudy was Deidre. When her
father put us out with the ban upon us,
we roamed the kingdom looking for food
and drink and a place to live.” He had
to tell Jim the things that the far corner
of his mind had revealed to him, tell
them before they were lost again, for the
door was shutting now into that corner of
his mind and Shamus knew intuitively it
would never open again.

"Everyone shunned us, afraid to help;
so we went to the forest to live. But we
could not find food. Even animals were
against us — the King’s curse had been a
wide one. I could only defend Deidre
from their onslaughts, give her water
from a brook and some berries that grew
near by.

"Deidre weakened, she grew ill. I
begged her to return to her fadier, to leave
me, but she would not. Then one day
while Deidre was asleep, came a woman
with red-gold hair and lush rounded
breasts who said she was of the fairy folk
and that she would take us to the Land
of Heart’s Desire, and tlie only price 1
had to pay was to kiss her now, and once
again when she asked me to. It seemed
simple enough. I kissed her lips, and she
took Deidre and me to a wonderful land
where everything was truly as our hearts
desired. We saw no one, but all our
needs were satisfied and we anted noth-
ing but each other.

"Deidre grew strong again and we
were happy; only all the time I remcm-

WEIRD TALES

bercd the magic of the fairy woman’s kiss
and knew I would be glad when she came
to claim the rest of tlie bargain — the sec-
ond kiss I had promised.

"Deidre knew there was something on
my mind, and being a woman as well as a
Princess she made me tell her. When I
did, she shrank back in horror, for she
said that the woman was not of the fairies
who were good and kind, and would ask
no payment — the woman was a witch-
woman and if I kissed her the second
time I would lose my soul; that we must
leave this pleasant land before she came
again.

"I laughed at her fears, but when she
wept I said that we would go. Just at that
moment the woman with the red-gold
hair and lush rounded breasts appeared
beside us. 'You made a bargain, Shamus
the farmer’s lad, and I have come to claim
my kiss,’ she said.

"I remembered the first kiss, and desire
for her ran high in my heart. 'I am ready
to pay.’ I moved toward her outstretdied
arms.

" 'No, No!’ cried Deidre. 'You shall
not!’ — and she ran between us and
pressed her lips against the woman’s, and
fell down dead from the force that was
in them, the force that was ready to take
my soul.

"Deidre’s soul it did not take, for she
had only been kissed once; but she was
dead, the beautiful Princess who had left
her throne for the farmer’s lad, and my
heart was dead with her.

"I looked at the woman, and the desire
for her was gone. I saw behind the love-
liness that was hers, and I knew her for
a witch. So standing there, with Deidre’s
body at my feet, I cursed the witch-wo-
man, cursed her with the curse of the un-
dying — ^that she could never find food,
that she would grow hungry through the
ages longing for my soul, unable to at-
tain it.

"She looked at me with a glowering
hate. 'Well is it for you that the second
kiss must be given, not taken,’ she said,
'or your soul would feel mine this mo-
ment. But if I must wait until you come
again to feed my hunger, then you must
go quickly so you can return quickly, I
do not like to wait.’

"And she stretched out her hand and
whispered a name — and I, Shamus the
farmer’s lad, fell across the dead body of
the Princess Deidre, my love!’’

S hamus stopped talking. The room
was very still. Then Jim asked,
"You remembered all that?’’

"Yes, in that second before I asked
Trudy’s help. What happened in be-
tween I don’t know; my memory didn’t
go beyond this, but evidently the witch-
woman, Cecily, has lost some of her
power with tlie years — she didn’t blast
me to annihilation this time.’’ Shamus
sighed thankfully. Life still looked good
to him. "She didn’t tell the truth of the
legend, either. Obviously she wanted me
to think her Deidre, to give her the sec-
ond kiss freely.’’

"I caught one glimpse of her as she
stood beside Trudy. I don’t wonder you
wanted to kiss her. Do you think she’ll
come back?’’ Jim’s voice was strained.

"I don’t think so. I think at least for
now she’s vanquished by my love for
Trudy, but ’’

"We’ll take no chances,” said Trudy
from the bed, sitting up. "Come on, Jim,
you’re going to be best man at a wed-
ding.”

"Now?” he exclaimed.

"Right now. We’ll motor over to that
place where you can be married at any
time. I heard everything you two said,
and I believe it. I’m not going to risk
losing Shay, now that I’ve got him,”
"She’s right, Jim. Let’s go.” Shamus

THE WITCH’S MARK

took Trudy’s hand and helped her to her
feet.

Jim caught a scarf from tlie bureau.
"Better put this around your neck — the
mark’s still there.”

"The witcli’s mark!” Shamus shud-
dered; all the more need for haste.

They went down the back way, al-
though the house was dark and every-
one was already sound asleep.

A s THEY drove up before the min-
ister’s door, the clock on the dash-
board said four o’clock. They woke up
a kindly old man who agreed to officiate
if they’d get a license from the Justice of
the Peace who lived next door.

As the minister said, "’Those whom
God hath joined together let no man put
asunder,” Shamus thought he heard a
faint sigh like the rustle of leaves in a
dying wind. Trudy must have heard
it too, for she clasped his hand tighter.

'They were quiet as thej' drove away.
Shamus felt an utter peace pervading
him — all the strange madness of the last
two days was over. Trudy was his. At
last Shamus, the farmer’s lad, had re-
gained his Princess.

As they turned into Ridgefield, Trudy
said to Jim, who was driving, "Go past
Cecily’s house.”

"But why?” Jim remonstrated.
"Haven’t you had enough for one
night?”

"I have a feeling that I must" Trudy
answered.

"If you’re going to get feelings too

and be psychic ” Jim groaned.

"Go ahead,” Shamus told him; "I’m
not afraid — not now.” He looked into
Trudy’s upturned eyes that reflected the
love in his.

"I wish Margery were here. All this
romance is hard on me,” Jim grumbled
as he speeded up the car.

Neither Trudy nor Shamus botliered to
answer. 'Tliey were very busy with each
other.

After a while Jim announced as he
slowed up, "There’s the house.” Then
his voice became puzzled, "Why, look,
the front door’s swinging open!”

He was right. Through the iron gates
set in the wall, they could see the front
door swinging back and forth.

"I’m going in,” Trudy said.

Jim stopped the car near the path
that led up to the house, whicli stood
quite a way back from the road.

"Now, see here, this has been a hard
night. Twice we’ve snatched Shay back
from something — witch-woman or —
what — I don’t know. The whole thing
may be as Shay doped it out, or it could
be suggestion. Miss Cecily Maltby may
have fallen for Shay in a big W'ay, and
be a hypnotist de luxe. But whichever
it is, why jump into the lion’s den?”
There was anxiety in Jim’s voice.

Trudy smiled. "'The mark has gone
from Shay’s throat.”

"It has!” both men exclaimed together.

"It faded while we were being mar-
ried. I was watching it. There’s no
danger now, Jim. I know there isn’t —
and I must go in.”

Shamus got out and held the car door
open.

"Come on Jim, Trudy’s right. We
may as well get this settled now.”

As they, walked up the path toward
that swinging door, Sliamus was afraid
of what the blackness behind it might
reveal, and although he knew he was
free of the witch’s mark, he dreaded
seeing Cecily Maltby again.

On the porch Jim threw the beam
from a pocket flashlight into the dark
hallway. It was empty. There was not
a stick of furniture in the place. The

WEIRD TALES

house was barren, stripped of any sign
of life.

"I don’t understand. I suppose people
can move in the middle of the night,
but the place was furnished when I
brought her home — lovely old antique
furniture in the hall,” there was awe in
Jim’s voice. “Now there’s nothing — it’s
as though it had never been lived in.”

"Perhaps it never was,” Shamus said
slowly.

"But I’ve been here! It was like any
house, and we all saw Cecily!” Trudy
clung to me.

"We won’t see her again, darling,”
Shamus whispered. "Between us we’ve
driven her away, back to Witch Land,
wherever it may be.”

Across the air floated just the vaguest
reminder of the unforgettable perfume,
as though it was a farewell from Cecily

Maltby to Shamus. He knew it as such.
The witch’s mark had gone from his
throat, but would the mark she had made
across his soul ever vanish? he wondered.
Would the remembrance of her haunt
him until in some future life they met
again and fought tlie batle over — and if
they did, how would it end?

He felt Trudy tremble against him.
"Come, dear,” he said gently. “We must
go now — and we must forget Cecily
Maltby.”

Shamus said that, and he meant it, but
as he guided Trudy out of the door
toward the new life that was to be theirs,
he wondered if he could ever quite for-
get Cecily Maltby, the witch-woman, with
her red-gold hair and her lush rounded
breasts.

Despite the happiness he has found
with Trudy, it is a question that has never
been answered.

Vl/anal

By H. P. LOVECRAFT

Somewhere in dream there is an evil place
Where tall deserted buildings crowd dong
A deep, black, narrow channel, reeking strong
Of frightful things, whence oily currents race.
Lanes with old walls half meeting overhead
Wind off to streets one may or may not know.
And feeble moonlight sheds a spectral glow
Over long rows of windows, dark and dead.

'There are no footfalls, and the one soft sound
Is of the oily water as it glides
Under stone bridges, and along the sides
Of its deep flume, to some vague ocean bound.
None lives to tell when that stream washed awajj
Its dream-lost region from the world of day.

7he^

U (ouse of Living Music

By EDMOND HAMILTON

strange weird-sdentijic story ivith a tragic denouement — about a great
composer who could re-create all living things in sound

I F I HAD only killed Harriman on
that first night! Yes, I know it would
have been murder, but the diabolical
thing that Harriman did was worse than
any murder. He was a great composer
— the world will never know just how
great. He was also a devil from hell.

But at that time I, a young newspaper
music critic, had only admiration for
Harriman. He was considered one of the
greatest living composers. His Mechani-
cal Symphony, with its mad blend of
street noises and riveters, had started a
whole new sdiooi of music. Then he had

WEIRD TALES

upset the academies again with what he
called "mathematical” music. He always
seemed striving to achieve some impos-
sible musical ideal that haunted his brain.

That night I met him in the lobby of
Gimegie Hall. Inside, the Philharmonic
had just launched into tlie last movement
of Beethoven’s Ninth, and I was hurry-
ing toward that exultant shout of strings
when I bumped into Harriman, going
out.

I muttered a hasty excuse, and tiien I
suddenly recognized him and stopped. It
was Harriman, all right, his tall, thin
figure clad as usual in rusty black, his un-
ruly, thick gray hair falling over his bril-
liant gray eyes and taut face. He looked
like a genius, Harriman did.

I exclaimed, "You’re not leaving now,
surely? Don’t you want to hear the
finale?”

Harriman said, "Hello, Raymer.”
Then he made an impatient, disgusted
movement with his hand, toward the dis-
tant music. "No, I don’t want to hear
it. It’s a confession — ^Beethoven’s con-
fession of his ultimate failure as a com-
poser.”

His gray eyes were bitter and scorn-
ful now as we stood there, listening to
the chorus’ great song that blended wil;jj
the tumultuous instruments in the con-
clusion of Beethoven’s stupendous work,

"Human voices,” said Harriman bit-
terly. '"rhat’s what Beethoven came
down to in the end — his attempts to
create pure, perfect music an admitted
failure.”

"What do you mean by perfect
music?” I demanded.

Unconsciously, in my interest, I had
fallen into step with Harriman and we
had strolled together out into the warm
spring night.

Harriman’s thin hand gesticulated as
he explained. "I mean music that per-

fectly expresses things in sound. Take a
flower, for instance. A painter can re-
produce that flower exactly for your eyes
by his colors. A scientist can reproduce
it exactly for your mind, by his exact
classifications and measurements. Why
shouldn’t a musician be able to repro-
duce the flower exactly for your ear in
sound, in music?”

"It’s an odd theory,” I commented.
"Sounds like a sort of sublimated pro-
gram music.”

"Program music, hell!” snarled Har-
riman angrily. "You wait until I ”

He shut up suddenly, and I could not
get another word out of him that eve-
ning. I left him at his apartment build-
ing, but I found pretexts to call on him
during the next few days, and endeavored
to draw him out further about his oddly
interesting theory.

It was no use, for Harriman was not
often there and when he was, he refused
to be pumped. Yet my time wasn’t
wasted, for in my first visit I’d discovered
his daughter. Lina Harriman became a
greater attraction for me there than her
father’s radical musical ideas.

S HE was a small girl, with bright yel-
low hair, a tip-tilted nose and blue
eyes dancing with love of fun. I tliink I
fell in love with laughing, gay little Lina
from the first. Harriman was too pre-
occupied to notice, though what so ab-
sorbed him I did not know, at first.

Lina told me, a few weeks after I’d
first met her. "I can’t understand it, Har-
old,” she said perplexedly. "Father is
going in for scientific research.”

I was amazed. "A first-class composer
like Harriman dabbling in science? Why
in the world should he?”

She shook her bright head, puzzled.
"I can’t guess — he will tell me nothing.
But you know that he was a brilliant stu-

THE HOUSE OF LIVING MUSIC

dent of physics before he took up music,
and for the last months he has spent all
his time down at the laboratories of Man-
hattan University, experimenting. He
says that it’s only a hobby of his.”

"Strange hobby for a man whose whole
life-interest seemed to be music,” I com-
mented. And I resolved to ask Harriman
about it the next time I called.

Well, I didn’t ask him, for the next
time I visited the apartment, Harriman
was gone. So was Lina. The apartment
was empty and I learned from the build-
ing superintendent that the two had
moved out only two days before.

He didn’t know where they had gone.
Neither could I find any forwarding ad-
dtess through the post office. Harriman’s
music publishers were similarly ignorant
— they didn’t know the composer had left
town until I told them.

I was surprized, and a little hurt, for
I had thought that Lina and I were com-
ing to an understanding, and couldn’t
comprehend why she would leave like
that without a word. I thought, though,
that she’d soon write from wherever they
had gone, but the weeks went by and
she didn’t.

She and her father had simply disap-
peared as though the earth had swal-
lowed them. I scoured aroimd New Yoric
musical circles a good bit, without ever
finding a clue to their whereabouts.

As a final resort I tried Manhattan
University, in whose physical laboratories
Harriman had been dabbling with re-
search. 'The professor of physics there, a
spectacled, white-haired Teuton, remem-
bered Harriman quite well.

"He was my pupil years ago — I ex-
pected him to become a brilliant physi-
cist,” he told me. ’"Then he disappointed
me — ^he turned to music. A fine scientist
wasted, just like that.” He added, "He
came back here a few months ago and

asked to use my laboratories for some
private research. Of course I let him.”

"You don’t know what kind of re-
search.^” I asked, a little curiously.

The scientist shook his head. "No, he
was quite secretive. It seemed that he
was conducting some experiments in
acoustics, but I could not gather their
nature.”

"And you’ve no idea where he and his
daughter could have gone?”

He hadn’t. I thanked him and left,
disappointed and wondering if Harri-
man had not become a little queer men-
tally.

It certainly looked like it, for a com-
poser of his reputation, a man of his de-
votion to music, to fling himself suddenly
into abstruse scientific research for weeks,
and then abruptly disappear. I told my-
self, too, that if Lina had wanted me to
know where she was, she would have
written me. She hadn’t, so I might as
well forget her.

But it wasn’t so easy for me to forget
laughing little Lina. Only now that she
was gone did I discover how much I
had come to care for her, 'The with-
drawal of her lilting, sunny being from
my life left it flat and tasteless, and I
followed my routine around the concert
halls and operas of New York without
much enthusiasm, in the following
months.

D uring all those months I had not
one word from Lina or her father,
and never heard from anyone in musical
circles any news of Harriman’s where-
abouts. He and Lina might just have
dropped out of existence. Then, a full
year after their disappearance, I was as-
tounded to receive a telegram from Har-
timan.

It had been sent from a village in

WEIRD TALES

western Massachusetts, and I read and
re-read it.

"Raymer, I’m not dead as you may
have thought. I’ve been working up here,
and 1 have achieved my ideal of perfect
music. If you will come up here, you
shall hear it.”

Lina! That was all I thought of when
I read Harriman’s queer message. I
didn’t care at that moment what Har-
riman had been doing in music. I was
only overjoyed to discover at last where
he and Lina were living.

Larly the next morning, I was in my
roadster on the highway north. And as
I drove through the spring-green Berk-
shires that afternoon, I could hardly wait
to reach Lina. I still couldn’t understand
why she had not written me, but told
myself that doubtless her father had for-
bidden it, in his desire for seclusion.

Tlie village from which his wire had
come was a neat little community of
white frame houses, tucked in the big
hills west of Greenfield. There I learned
without trouble where Harriman was liv-
ing — a hilltop house a few miles out of
the village. It was late afternoon by the
time I steered my car around a winding
dirt road into sight of the place.

Harriman’s house stood brooding black
against the red embers of sunset, up on
the low, domed hill. It w'as an old stone
Colonial farmhouse, whose grounds
looked shabby and ill cared for. I
stopped my car in its drive, wondering
whether gay, fun-loving Lina had liked
this isolated place.

My heart pounded with eager antici-
pation as I stood in the dusk on the
veranda, ringing the bell. But when the
door opened, my spirits were a little
dashed, for it wasn’t Lina who stood in-
side, but Harriman himself.

He had changed, in this year. His
white face was thinner, looking more

taut and strained than it had been, and
his gray eyes, always brilliant, were burn-
ing now with some continuous inward
excitement. -

He smiled at me a little oddly and
said, "I hoped you’d come, Raymer. I
was almost sure you would.”

"Where’s Lina.^” I demanded eagerly.
"Does she know I’m coming?”

Harriman made a brusk gesture. "Oh,
Lina — she’s not here.”

"Not here?” I echoed, dismayed.

He shook his head. "No, she couldn’t
stand the loneliness out here. A month
after we came, she left me and went
down to live with an aunt of hers in
North Carolina.” He added, "Come on j
in, Raymer. Let me have your bag.”

I was numb with disappointment as I
followed him inside. Only now was I
aware how eagerly I had looked forward
to seeing Lina again. Harriman, how-;
ever, appeared not to notice my dejec-
tion, as he conducted me into the living-
room of the old house.

The room was in an unforgivably slov-
enly state from complete lack of care,
dust lying thick on the floor and old-
fashioned black furniture. It was quite
evident that Harriman was living here
alone.

He W'as rigid with repressed excitement
as he told me now, "Raymer, you’ll thank
heaven you came here, For you, first of
all men, are going to hear the greatest
music ever produced on this earth — my
music.”

I said hesitatingly, "Yes, but Lina — I
can’t understand why she never w'rote me
from Carolina.”

He exclaimed impatiently, "Oh, forget
about Lina — haven’t you any curiosity at
all about my music?”

I tried to summon up an appearance
of interest.

"Of course I’m curious, Harriman.

THE HOUSE OF LIVING MUSIC

, What have you been composing up here,
anyway? Another symphony?”

He nodded slowly, his brilliant gray
eyes fixed with an odd expression on
mine. "You might call it that. You re-
member, Raymer, that I once told you my
dream was to create music that would
perfectly express anything, any object, in
sound? Well, I’ve succeeded, and you’re
going to hear that music. Come along
to my laboratory.”

"Your laboratory?” I repeated, sur-
prized.

He chuckled. "Yes, Raymer, this
music isn’t composed with pen and ruled
paper. It is created by — but come on,
and see for yourself.”

I followed him along a dark corridor
that led into the rear portion of the ram-
bling old house. He led into a dark
room, and when he had snapped on the
lights, I saw that it really did look like a
scientific laboratory.

There were various electrical genera-
tors and machines around the room,
which meant nothing to a music critic
like myself. There was also a sound-
recording machine and a large phono-
graph, but the central object in the room
was a big cubical m.etal chamber six feet
high. 'This weird apparatus was open
in front, and fastened outside one of its
sides was a bank of big vacuum tubes
connected to a resonator like a flat loud-
speaker.

I said, "This is a queer kind of study
for a composer.”

Harriman laughed triumphantly.
"Wait until you hear the music that has
been created in this room.”

He opened a big steel filing-case. I
saw that it was full of black disks, phono-
graph records of the long-playing kind.
They were not ordinary commercial rec-
ords, tliough, for tlie only label on each
one w'as a white sticker with a scrawled
word in Harriman’s writing.

H arriman took out one of the rec-
ords and placed it on the turntable
of the large phonograph near me. Then
he turned to me.

"This is one of the first pieces of music
I created here, Raymer. It is a series of
flowers, in music.”

I said doubtfully, "You mean a de-
scriptive suite something like Had-
ley’s ”

"Hadley be damned!” he muttered.
"This isn’t a musical description of flow-
ers — it’s the flowers themselves, in music!
Listen.”

He started the phonograph. Out from
the turning black disk welled music,
strange music such as I had never heard
before. Its notes did not seem to have
been produced by any musical instru-
ment known to man. 'They were purer,
sweeter, clearer, than any sounds that
man-made instruments could create. And
they wove a weird, magic pattern of
changing sound in the lamplit laboratory,
music that brought with it to my ears
and brain, inevitable sound-pictures of
the blossoming plants of earth. Each
separate drifting melodic phrase seemed
to conjure up for me a different impres-
sion of flowers blooming from the soil.

There were shy, sweet, fluted melodies,
fugitive and brief, that brought to my
mind the wild, nodding violets and
daisies. There were thrilling, full-
voiced harmonies of gorgeous roses, cool,
low songs of drooping orchids, flaring
music of vivid poppy and hibiscus, sigh-
ing whisper of white lilies beside forest
pools, and gay, climbing, clarinet-like
notes that irresistibly suggested the wav-
ing cat-tails.

I listened enthralled, almost forgetting
my disappointment over Lina’s absence.
It was like hearing all the flowers of earth
instead of seeing them. As he played
record after record, the cool drifting
music brought before my eyes everything

WEIRD TALES

that has root and seed and flower, all the
life that climbs upward from the soil
into the sunlight.

"Harriman, it’s wonderful!” I cried.
"It is music like no other ever composed
before. But I can’t understand on what
instruments you produced it ”

"You will soon learn that,” Harriman
answered, his thin face smiling strangely.
"Tliere is more that I want you to hear
first.”

One record after another he brought
from the cabinet and played. Enchanted,
I listened, hearing music such as surely no
one had ever listened to before, music
perfectly expressive of the life of earth.

Strong, vibrating harmonies as of
hushed reed-instruments that voiced the
trees of the forest, the sturdy young
elms and gnarled oaks and slender, grace-
ful birches. Deep, solemn chords like
the muttering of ancient bassoons, ex-
pressing in sound the rocks of earth it-
self, the eternal quartz and granite. Ring-
ing, crystal bell-notes of shining forest
spring and stream.

And the wild, moving life of earth
welled out in the room in music, too.
Swift, thrilling harmonies of the winged
birds that dart in the sky; nervous, quick-
tumbling music of the squirrels, running
in the branches, little orderly rhythms of
tiny pattering brasses in complex coun-
terpoint, that voiced the intricate life of
hive and ant-hill; long, suave harmonies
that brought before the eyes the silver
fish poised in his dim, curving world.
All the inanimate earth, and also its ani-
mate plant and animal life, poured forth
in torrents of weird music.

Harriman finally stopped the phono-
graph, his eyes brilliant with triumph.
"Now do you know what perfect music
is, Raymer?”

I cried, "How in the world did you
do it? How could you create music like

that? It’s as though you translated the
rocks and birds and flowers themselves
into music.”

"That,” said Harriman, "is just what
I do.”

I stared at him. "What do you mean?”

"Just what I said,” he replied calmly.
"Watch, Raymer.”

He went to the big, cube-shaped ap-
paratus, and touched certain switches on
its control panel. 'The electrical mechan-
isms around the room broke into whin-
ing life. A flood of white radiance cas-
caded down from the top of the cube’s
interior, filling the hollow chamber with
shining force. ’The great vacuum on the
side began to sputter.

H arriman took a red carnation from
a vase of flowers, and tossed the
blossom into the force-filled chamber.
Then my eyes beheld an uncanny thing.
The carnation began to fade, to disappear
slowly. As though under that terrific
flood of white force, its very substance
was melting away.

And from the resonator outside the
cubical chamber, at the same time, began
to issue sounds. Music! Hushed, vel-
vety, slow-climbing tones in languid
rhythm, a smooth, slow harmony that
perfectly expressed in sound the fading
flower inside the cube!

The flower faded further, became al-
most invisible in its increasing tenuity.
The velvety music from the resonator
swelled louder. 'Then, as I watched
frozenly, the carnation in the cube van-
ished altogether and the music ended.

I gasped, "Good Lord, it isn’t possible

that I’ve seen ”

Harriman nodded quietly. "Yes, Ray-
mer. You have just seen solid matter
transmuted into sound, a flower trans-
lated into music. I can do the same with
any living or non-livmg matter.”

THE HOUSE OF LIVING MUSIC

27 ,

And, to show me, he took a living rab-
bit from a cage in the comer, and tossed
it also into the force-filled chamber.

I saw the furry little animal freeze mo-
tionless inside, as though petrified by the
white force. It too began slowly to fade.
And again from the resonator came music
— different music.

E>arting, quidc little runs of jovial sil-
very notes in broken rhythm, a complex
harmony that was a perfect sound-picture
of the furred, furtive little thing inside
the tube. The rabbit faded further, the
music swelled quicker and louder. Then
the little beast too had vanished, and
with a last flutter of silver notes, the
music ended.

I said hoarsely, "A flower — an ani-
mal — converted into pure sound!”

Harriman nodded again. "Just so was
created all the music which you have
heard, and which I have recorded as it
issued from that apparatus. Everything
1 put into that cube beneath the chang-
ing force, flower or rock or bird or beast,
has been transmuted into pure music
which I have preserved on these records.”

"But how?” I cried, stupefied. "The
thing’s not possible ”

Harriman’s eyes glistened. "Yet I
achieved it, Raymer — achieved my life
ambition of creating music that does not
describe a thing, but is that thing, turned
into sound.

"It’s simple enough, in principle.
What is music, sound? A vibration in
the air, is it not? And what is matter?
A vibration in the ether, nothing more.
Well, find a way to transfer that vibration
from the ether to the air, and you have
transmuted matter into sound, into
music.

"That process does not offer great dif-
ficulties. After all, any ordinary radio can
transfer etheric vibrations, the Hertzian
waves which flash through the etlier, into

sound-vibrations. It Is Very little harder
to convert the different etheric vibrations
which are matter into sound-waves. This
apparatus of mine does it easily. The
more complex the matter, the naore com-
plex will be the sound, the music”

Harriman’s face was gleaming with
rapt devotion as he continued, "By this
method, I am going to create the greatest
symphony that will ever be heard. An
Earth Symphony, containing the pure
music of earth itself, its rocks and streams
and flowers and birds and beasts. Out
of the pure music preserved in these
records, I shall assemble that Earth Sym-
phony, the greatest musical work that will
ever be heard in this world.”

Stunned, I said, "But somehow
this whole business seems unholy,
uncanny ”

I asked with a sudden thought, "Is
that why Lina left here? Because of this
weird work of aeation of yours?”

Harriman nodded impatiently. "Yes,
Lina too thought that it was uncanny and
didn’t want to stay. I’ve been living here
quite alone, and that’s why I wired you
to come, Raymer — I wanted someone to
know what I have achieved.”

The brooding brilliance in his eyes
deepened. "But my great woric here is
nearly completed now. Soon I shall have
arranged and assembled the pure mflsic
of these records into my Earth Symphony.
When the world hears the records of
that symphony, it will hear pure, perfect
music for the first time.”

He broke off, turning to me. "You
look pretty dazed, Raymer, and tired too.
We’ll have some supper, and after a good
night’s sleep you’ll be better able to ap-
preciate what I’m doing.”

I made no objection, but I ate little
of the sketchy supper which Harriman
prepared in the ill-kept kitchen. I was
still extremely disappointed by Lina’s ab-

WEIRD TALES

sence, yet I could well understand now
why she had left. There was something
so strange about Harriman’s fantastically
created music that it repelled me in spite
of its perfect beauty.

Later, as I lay in bed in the dark,
musty chamber Harriman had assigned
me, I foimd myself shivering a little
when I heard faint, drifting music from
his library. He was there, I knew, even
this late, going over his records, listening
to the music into which he had converted
life itself.

T hrough the dark house the weird
music whispered to me where I lay
in darkness. I heard again those cool,
sweet harmonies of forest flowers, those
mighty chords of the eternal rocks, the
swift, rippling rhytlims of winged birds
and jovial, broken music of furtive for-
est beasts. The music stopped, and then
it began again. But this time it was not
any music that Harriman had played for
me in the laboratory, but was new, dif-
ferent music that brought me bolt up-
right in bed, trembling as I listened.

A gay, dancing melody it was now,
clearer and sweeter and more tender than
any he had let me hear. It rose and fell
like love and laughter themselves trans-
lated into silver sound.

Sweeter, stronger, swelled that silver
melody, while I listened with a strange
feeling clutching my heart. That ex-
quisite, lilting music, it was like the
laughing tenderness of a loving heart,
like a bright-haired girl dancing in the

sunlight, like

Like Lina!

That hideous thought crashed into my
brain like a dissonance of horror across
the lilting notes.

I leaped wildly out of bed, snatched
on my clotlies and crept down the cor-
ridor toward the laboratory door. I was

trembling like a harp-string as I paused
outside that door.

From within, the gay, sweet music
welled to a sheer climax of imearthly
melody. A last phrase of exquisitely ten-
der notes whispered to me. Then silence.

I crashed madly through the door.
Harriman whirled from the big phono-
graph, his face a stiff white mask of
alarm, and came toward me.

I thrust him reeling aside and ran to
the phonograph, peered with wild eyes
at the black record that lay on it. The
label on the disk bore a single written
word: "Lina.”

"Lina!” I screamed it aloud like a ma-
niac at Harriman as he stumbled to his
feet. "You did the thing to her, too —
translated her too into music!”

"Yes, I did.” Harriman’s stiff white
face was strange, and in his voice there
was a ghastly note of unhuman pride.
He had drawn a pistol from his pocket
and was covering me v/ith it.

His voice swelled, his eyes blazed.
"Yes, I put Lina into the cube and trans-
muted her also into music — ^music that
will live for ever. I loved her, do you
hear? Yet I did not hesitate to do that,
for as a mere human being of flesh and
blood she would have died within a few
score of years. But as music, imprisoned
eternally in that record, she is undying
in beauty!

"She will live on always as part of my
immortal Earth Symphony. And you too
will be part of that great symphony, Ray-
mer! That is the reason why I had you
come here. For my Earth Symphony, to
be really complete, must have in it not
only the rocks and streams, the birds and
flowers and beasts, it must also have in
it human life, human love, man and
woman who love each other. The music
that was Lina is already recorded and
preserved. And you, Raymer, shall now

THE HOUSE OF LIVING MUSIC

become music likewise and take your
place with her in my symphony.’’

And Harriman, keeping his pistol
aimed at my heart, strode toward the con-
trol panel of his diabolical apparatus.
'The switches clicked, the white forces
streamed down into the interior of the
tube.

He rasped, "You will step into the
cube, Raymer. Otherwise ’’

He stopped. For by now the "wild
grief that had frozen me suddenly dis-
solved into mad rage as I stared at the
black record in which was prisoned the
music that had been the girl I loved.

Gone, transmuted into silver melody,
lost to me for ever! Lina

I shrieked, "By heaven, your devil’s
symphony will never be heard by the
world! I’ll destroy it — it and you ’’

And in my crazy rage I leaped at the
filing-case and tore out the neat stadcs of
black records, sent them crashing to the
floor in showers of broken black bits.

Harriman shridced and shot. I felt the
bullets tear into my shoulder but in my
mad wrath I did not even experience any
pain. And as I tore out the last records
and smashed them, Harriman leaped at
me.

Hb eyes blazed awful agony and his
hands clutched my throat to choke me.
He too had gone mad at si^t of the de-
struction of his work. We wrestled there,
two crazily struggling men in the lamplit
laboratory.

"Lina!” I kept shouting as I struggled,
that strangling horror still utterly possess-
ing my soul.

I tore his hands from my throat, forced
him back across the room, toward the
devilish cube inside which the white
transmuting forces flamed. I thrust him
with a wild push inside the cube!

Harriman’s thin body froze rigid in
there beneath the terrific forces. Pain,
awful pain, leaped into his stricken eyes.
His petrified body began to waver, to
fade. And as he faded, sound, music,
swelled out from the resonator at the side
of tlie cube. Music into which Harri-
man’s mind and body were being trans-
lated! Thunderous, crashing chords of
vaulting and collapsing superhuman as-
pirations. Mad bellowing as of brasses
trumpeting soaring ambitions that had
failed. Wild music such as no man had
ever heard before, thundering on my ears
as Harriman’s frozen body faded and
faded, until at last his misty form was
gone, and with a last, long wail of bitter
agony, the music had ended.

I was only dimly conscious. But I
reeled forward and with great blows
smashed the tubes and apparatus of the
cube, then staggered to the phonograph
and snatched from it the black record
with Lina’s name upon it, the only one
that had escaped destruction. And with
it clutched to my breast, I stumbled
blindly and drunkenly out of that house
accursed.

T he world never knew what became
of Harriman and Lina. When I
drove unsteadily into the village in the
gray dawn after that hideous nigfit, I
told only that I had found them missing
from the old house. The signs of de-
struction in the house led local authori-
ties to believe that intruders bent on rob-
bery had killed Harriman and - his
daughter and disposed of their bodies.
I let them think so, for I knew that if I
told the truth they would deem me mad,

I am no longer a music critic, for I
can no longer bear to hear music of
any sort. But there is one exception.
'That is the record that I took with me

WEffiD TALES

from Harriman’s house, the black disk
that imprisons for ever the tender, won-
derful melody into which was transmuted
the girl I loved.

That music I hear each night. I start
that record playing, and as the dancing

melody swells out, gay and clear and
sweet, Lina is again beside me in the
dark room — little Lina, laughing beside
me in the lilting, exquisite music that
was her being. She will be with me
thus while I live.

By SEABURY QUINN

A mystic stofy of the yuletide and a barbarian from the North in the Koman
army — a reverent tale of the Crucifixion, and Pontius Pilate, and
a hetaera from the house of Mary the Magdalene

J. The Road to Bethlehem

F ires of thombush crackled in the
courtyard of the sari, camels sighed
and grunted in their kneeling-places,
horses munched dry grass. Around the
empty stew-pots met licked the crumbs
of rice and grease from fingers and
brushed them from their beards, then
drew their sheepskin cloaks about them
and lay down on the kidney stones to
sleep; all but the little group of three
who huddled round a charcoal brazier in
a comer by the horse-lines. They were
talking treason:

"Wah, these be evil days for Jacob’s
children; they are as the tribes in Egypt
were, only they have neither Moses nor a
Joshua! . . . The tax of a denarius on
every household, and each one forced to
journey to his birthplace. . . . Now they
slay our children in their swaddling-
bands. , . . This Romans’ puppet that sits
on the throne, this unbelieving Greek!”
"But Judas will avenge our wrongs;

men say that he is that Messiah we have
waited for so long. He will rouse his
mighty men of valor out of Galilee and
sweep the Roman tyrant in the sea ”

"Sh-s-sh, Joachim, hold thy babble;
that one yonder is belike a spy!”

With one accord the men turned to-
ward the figure hunched in sleep before
a dying fire of thornbush. Flaxen-haired,
fair-skinned, he drooped above the whit-
ening embers, his cloak of mddy woolen
cloth draped loosely round his shoulders,
the sinking firelight picking out soft high-
lights on the iron cap tliat crowned his
flowing, braided hair. A man of mighty
stature, one of the gladiators kept by
Herod in his school for athletes that was
constantly replenished with recruits from
German provinces or the Slavic tribes
beyond the Danube.

"What does the godless dog so far
from Herod’s kennels.^”

"The Lord of Zion knows, but if be
go back to the Holy City and tell the tale
of what he has heard here, three crosses

ROADS

will crown Golgotha before another sun
has set,” Joachim interrupted softly, and
dropping to his knees imloosed the dag-
ger at his girdle as he began to worm his
way across the courtyard flints. In all the
country round about Jerusalem there was
no hand more skilful with the knife than
that of Joachim the cut-purse. Softly as
the cat that stalks a mouse he crept across
the stones, paused and bore his weight on
one hand while he drew the other back
... a single quick thrust underneath the
shoulder-blade, slanting downward to tire
heart, then the gurgling, blood-choked
cry, the helpless thrashing of the limbs.

the fight for breath, and — perhaps the
sleeping gladiator had a wallet stuflPed
with gold, or even copper. They were
well paid, these fighting dogs from
Herod’s kennels. The firelight glinted on

the plunging knife, and

On the golden bracelet on the North-
man’s arm. "Ho, little brother of a rat,
would you bite a sleeping man,” the
giant’s bell-like voice boomed, "and one
who never did thee any harm? For
shame!” White lines sprang into promi-
nence against his sun-gilt skin; his mighty
muscles tightened, and a yelp of pain
came from Joachim as the Imife dropped

"She lay as limp as death within his arms os he dashed back to Ihei
shelter ml the wolL"

WEIRD TALES

from his unnerved fingers and a aackling
like the breaking of a willow twig told
where his wrist-bones snapped beneath
the other’s sudden grip.

"Have merqr, mighty one,” he begged.
"I thought ”

"Aye, that thou didst, thou niddering
craven,” came the answer. "Thou thougjit
me sleeping, and like the thief thou art,
were minded to have had my purse and
life at once. Now get thee gone from out
my sight, thou and those hangdog friends
of thine, before I crush that puny neck
between these hands of mine.”

He spread his hands, great, well-shaped,
white-skinned hands trained in the wres-
tler’s art and in the wielding of the
sword, and his strong, white fingers
twitched as though already they felt yield-
ing flesh between them. With a fright-
ened shirking, as though they were in
truth the rats the stranger named them,
the three conspirators slunk out, Joachim
the cut-purse nursing his broken right
wrist in the crook of his left arm, his two
companions crowding close beside him as
they sought to gain the exit of the court-
yard before the giant Northling reconsid-
ered and repented of his mercy.

’The blond-haired stranger watched
them go, then swung his cloak back from
his shoulders. Beneath the cape he wore
from neck to knee a tunic of fine woolen
stufli dyed brilliant red and edged about
die bottom with embroidery of gold. A
corselet of tanned bullhide set with iron
studs w'as buckled round his torso; his
feet were shod widi buskins of soft
leather laced about his legs with rawhide
thongs; from the girdle at his w'aist on
one side hung a double-bladed ax, on the
other a soft-leather poudi which clinked
with a metallic sound each time he
moved. Between his shoulders swung a
long two-handed sword with a wide,
well-tempered blade, pointed and double-
edged. He was brawny and broad-shoul-

dered, his hair was braided in two long,
fair plaits which fell on either side his
face beneath his iron skullcap. Like his
hair, his beard was golden as the ripening
wheat, and hung well down upon his
breastplate. Yet be was not old; the
flaxen beard was still too young to have
felt shears, his lightly sun-tanned skin
was smooth and fair, his sea-blue eyes
were clear and youthful. He glanced up
at the star-flecked heavens, then drew his
cloak about him.

"The dragon marches low upon the
skies,” he muttered; " 'tis time I set forth
on my journey if I would reach the home-
land ere the winter tempests howl again.”

T he road was thick with travelers,
mostly peasants on their way to mar-
ket, for the day began with sunrise, and
the bartering would start within an hour.
Hucksters of every sort of article, fanciful
as well as necessary, pressed along the
way, tugging at halters, now entreating,
now berating their pack-animals to great-
er speed. A patrol of soldiers passed him,
and their decurion raised his hand in
greeting.

"Salve, Claudius! Art thou truly going
back to that cold land of thine.? By Pluto,
I am sorry that thou leavest us; many is
the silver penny I have won by betting
on those fists of thine, or on thy skill at
swordplay!”

’The Northman smiled amusedly.
Though he had been among the Romans
since before his beard was sprouted, their
rendering of his simple Nordic name of
Klaus to Claudius had never failed to
rouse his laughter.

"Yea, Marcus, I am soothly gone, this
time. Five years and more have I served
Herod’s whim, and in that time I’ve
learnt the art of war as few can know it.
With sword and ax and mace, or with
bare hands or cestus have 1 fought until
methinks I’ve had my fill ©f fighting.

W. T.— 2

ROADS

Now I go back to till my fathers’ acres,
perchance to go a-viking, if the spirit
moves me, but hereafter I will fight for
my own gain or pleasure, not to the
humor of another.”

"The gods go with the, then. Bar-
barian,” the Roman bade. " ’Twill be a
long time ere we see thy match upon the
sands of the arena.”

A RAMBLING, single-streetcd village
fringed' the highway, and at the
trickling fountain where the women came
to fill their jars the wanderer rested to
scoop up a sup of tepid water in his hand.
The sun was up six hours and the little
square around the spring should have
b^ alive with magpie-chattering women
and their riotously noisy children; but the
place was like a city of the dead. Silence
thick as dust lay on the white, sun-bitten
road; utter quiet sealed the houses with
the silence of a row of tombs. Tlien, as
he looked about in wonderment, Klaus
heard a thin-drawn, piping wail: "Ai-ai-
td-ai!” the universal cry of mourning in
the East. ''Ai-ai-aj-ai!”

He kicked aside the curtain at the door-
way and looked into the darkness of the
little house. A woman crouched cross-
legged on the earthen floor, her hair un-
bound, her gown ripped open to expose
her breasts, dust on her brow and cheeks
and bosom. On her knees, very quiet, but
not sleeping, lay a baby boy, and on the
little breast there flowered a crimson
wound. Klaus recognized it — a gladiator
knew the trademark of his calling! — a
sword-cut. Half a hand’s-span long,
ragged at the edges, sunk so deep into
the baby flesh that the glinting white of
breastbone showed between the raw
wound’s gaping, bloody lips.

"Who hath done this thing?” 'The
Northman’s eyes were hard as fjord-ice,
and a grimness set upon his bearded lips
'W. T.— 3

like that they wore when he faced a Cap-
padocian netman in the circus. "Who
hath done this to thee, woman?”

The young Jewess looked up from her
keening. Her eyes were red and swollen
with much weeping, and the tears had
cut small rivulets into the dust with
W'hich her face was smeared, but even in
her agony she showed some traces of her
wonted beauty.

"The soldiers,” she replied between
breath-breaking sobs, "lliey came and
went from house to house, as the Angel
of the Lord went through tlie land of
Egypt, but we had no blood to smear
our lintels. Tliey came and smote and
slew; there is not a man-child left alive
in all the village. Oh, my son, my little
son, why did they do this thing to thee,
thou who never did them any harm? Oh,
woe is me; my God hath left me comfort-
less, my firstborn, only son is slain ”

"Thou liest, woman!” Klaus’s words
rang sharp as steel. "Soldiers do not do
things like this. They war with men,
they make no war on babes.”

The mother rocked her body to and
fro and beat her breast W’ith small
clenched fists. "The soldiers did it,” she
repeated doggedly. "They came and
went from house to house, and slew our
sons ”

"Romans?” Klaus asked incredulously.
Cruel the Romans were at times, but
never to his knowledge had they done a
thing like this. Romans were not baby-
killers.

"Nay, the soldiers, of the King. Ro-
mans only in the armor that they wore.
They came marching into town, and ”

"The soldiers of the King? Herod?”

"Yea, Barbarian. King Herod, may
his name be cursed for evermore! Some
days agone came travelers from the East
who declared a king was bom among the
Jews, and Herod, fearing that tlie throne

WEIRD

TALES

might go to him, dispatched his soldiery
throughout tlie coasts of Bethlehem to
slay the sons of every house who had not
reached their second year.”

"Thy husband ”

"Alas, I am a widow.”

"And hast thou store of oil and meal?”

"Nay, my lord, here is only death.
'Ai-ai-ai ”

Klaus took some copper from his
pouch and dropped it in the woman’s lap
beside the little corpse. "Take this,” he
ordered, "and have them do unto the
body of thy babe according to thy cus-
tom.”

"The Lord be gracious unto you. Bar-
barian. To you and all your house be
peace, for that thou takest pity on the
widow in her sorrow!”

"Let be. What is thy name?”

"Rachel, magnificence; and may the
Lord of Israel give favor to ”

Klaus turned away and left the weep-
ing woman with her dead.

T he waxing moon rode high above
the grove where Klaus lay bundled
in his cloak. Occasionally, from the
denser of the thickets came the chirp of
bird or squeak of insect, but otherwise
the night was silent, for robbers roamed
the highways after dark, and though the
soldiers of the Governor kept patrol, the
wise man stayed indoors until the sun
had risen. But the hardiest highwayman
would stop and give the matter second
thought ere he attacked a sworded giant,
and the nearest inn was several miles
away; also a journey of a thousand miles
and more lay between the Northman and
his home, and though his wallet bulged
with gold saved from his years spent as
a hired fighter in the Tetrarch’s barracks,
it behooved him to economize. Besides,
the turf w'as sweet to smell, whicli the
caravansaries were not, and the memory

of the widow-woman’s murdered son had
set a canker in his brain. It were better
that he had no traffic with his fellow men
for several hours.

'The broken rhythm of a donkey’s
hoofs came faintly to him from the high-
way. The beast walked slowly, as though
tired, and as if he who led it were also
weary and footsore, yet urged by some
compulsion to pursue his journey through
the night.

"By Thor,” mused Klaus, "they are a
nation of strange men, these Jews. Al-
ways disputing, ever arguing, never falter-
ing in tlieir lust for gold; yet withal they
have a spirit in them like that no other
people has. Should their long-sought
Messiah finally come, methinks that all
the might of Rome would scarcely be
enough to stop them in their ”

'The hail came piercingly, mounting in
a sharp crescendo, freighted with a bur-
den of despair. "Help, help — ^we be be-
set by robbers!”

Klaus smiled sardonically. "So anxious
to be early at tomorrow’s market that he
braves the dangerous highway after dark;
yet when the robbers set upon him ”

A woman’s scream of terror seconded
the man’s despairing hail, and Klaus
bounded from his couch upon the turf,
dragging at the sword that hung between
his shoulders.

A knot of spearmen clustered round a
man and woman. From their crested hel-
mets and bronze cuirasses he knew them
to be soldiers in the livery of Rome.
From their hook-nosed faces he knew
them to be Syrians, Jewish renegades, per-
haps, possibly Arabs or Armenians, for
such composed the little private army
which the Tetrarch kept for show, and to
do the work he dared not ask the Roman
garrison to do.

"Ho, there, what goes on here?” chal-
lenged Klaus as he hurried from the

ROADS

woods. ’"What mean ye by molesting
peaceful travelers ”

The decurion in command turned on
him fiercely. "Stand aside, Barbarian,"
he ordered curtly. "We be soldiers of the
King, and ”

"By Odin’s ravens, I care not if ye be
the Caesar’s soldiers. I’ll have your reason
for attacking this good m.an and wife,
or the sword will sing its song!" roared
Klaus.

"Seize him, some of you!" the decarch
ordered. "We’ll take him to the Tetrarch
for his pleasure. The rest stand by, we
have our task to do — give me thy baby,
woman!” He bared his sword and ad-
vanced upon the w'oman seated on the
ass, a sleeping infant cradled in her arms.

And now the wild war-madness of his
people came on Klaus. A soldier sprang
at him and thrust his lance straight at
his face, but Klaus’s long sword clove
through bronze spearhead and ash-wood
stave, and left the fellow weaponless
before him. Then before his adversary
could drag out his shortsw’ord, Klaus
thrust, and his blade pierced through the
soldier’s shield and tlirough the arm be-
hind it, and almost through the cuirassed
body. The man fell with a gasping cry,
and three more soldiers leaped at Klaus,
heads low above their shields, their lances
held at rest

"Aie, for the song of the sword, aie
for the red blood flowing, aie for the lay
the Storm-Maidens sing of heroes and
Valhalla!” chanted Klaus, and as he sang
he- struck, and struck again, and his gray-
steel blade drank tliirstily. Four soldiers
of the Tetrarch’s guard he slew before
they could close with him, and when two
others, rushing to attack him from be-
hind, laid hands upon him, he dropped
his sword and reaching backward took
his adversaries in his arms as though he
were some monstrous bear and beat their
heads together till their helmets toppled

off and their skulls were cracked and they
fell dead, blood rushing from their ears
and noses. Now only four remained to
face him, and he seized the double-bladed
ax that dangled at his girdle, and with a
mighty shout leaped on his foes as though
they had been one and he a score. His
iron ax-blade clove through bronze and
bullock-hide as though they had been
parchment, and two more of the Tetrarch’s
guardsmen fell down dead; the other two
turned tail and fled from this avenging
fury with the fiery, wind-blov.'n beard and
long, fair hair that streamed unbound
upon the night wind. Then Klaus stood
face to face with the decurion.

"Now, thou sayer of great words and
doer of small deeds, thou baby-killer, say,
wilt thou play the man’s game, or do I
smite thee headless like the criminal thou
art.^” asked he.

"I did but do my dut}-. Barbarian,” the
decurion answered sulkily. "The great
King bade us go through all this land
and take the man-child of eacli house, if
he were under two years old, and slay
him. I know not why, but a soldier’s
duty is to bear his orders out ’’

"Aye, and a soldier’s duty is to die,
by Odin’s Twelve Companions!” Klaus
broke in. "Take this for Rachel’s child;
the widow-woman’s only son, thou eater-
up of little, helpless babes!” And he
aimed an ax-blow at the decarch, and
never in his years of figliting in tlie circus
had Klaus the Smiter smitten such a blow.
Neither shield nor mail could stop it, for
the ax-blade sheared through both as
though they had been linen, and the ax-
edge fell upon the decarch’s side where
neck and shoulder join, and it cut through
bone and muscle, and the arm fell dow'n
into the white dust of tlie roadway, and
the ax cleft on, and bit into the decarch’s
breast until it split his very heart in tw'o,
and as the oak-tree falls when fire from
heaven blasts it, so fell the soldier of

WEIRD TALES

King Herod in the dust at Klaus’s feet,
and lay there, quivering and headless.

Then Klaus unloosed the thong that
bound the ax-helve to his wrist, and
tossed the weapon up into the air, so that
it spun around, a gleaming circle in the
silver moonlight, and as it fell he caught
it in his hand again and tossed it up above
tlie whispering treetops and sang a song
of victory, as his fathers had sung victory-
licder since the days when Northmen first
went viking, and he praised the gods of
Valhalla; to Odin, father of the gods, and
Thor the Thunderer, and to the beauteous
Valkyrior, choosers of the valiant slain in
battle, he gave full praise, and on the
bodies of his fallen foes he kicked the
white road-dust, and spat upon them, and
named them churls and nidderings, and
unfit wearers of the mail of men of war.

H IS frenzy wore itself to calm, and,
putting up his ax, he turned to look
upon the little family he had succored.
The man stood by the donkey’s head,
holding the leading-strap in one hand, in
the other a stout stick which seemed to
have been chosen for the double purpose
of walking-staff and goad. He was some
fifty years of age, as the gray which
streaked his otherwise black beard at-
tested, and was clothed from nedc to
heels in a gown of somber-colored woolen
stuflF which from its freshness evidently
was the ceremonial best that he was wont
to wear on Shabbath to the synagogue. A
linen turban bound his head, and before
his ears the unshorn locks of "David-
curls” hung down each side his face. His
clotlies and bearing stamped him as a
countryman or villager; yet withal there
was that simple dignity about him which
has been the heritage of self-respecting
poverty since time began.

Unmindful of the battle which had
taken place so near it, the donkey cropped
the short grass at the roadside in somno-

lent content, indifferent alike to war’s
alarms and tlie woman seated on the
cushioned pillion on its back. 'The wo-
man on the ass was barely past her girl-
hood, not more than fifteen, Klaus sur-
mised as he glanced appreciatively upon
her clear-cut, lovely features. Her face
was oval, her skin more pale than fair,
her features were exquisite in their purity
of outline; a faultless nose, full, ripe and
warmly-colored lips, slightly parted with
the fright the soldiers’ rude assault had
caused, a mouth where tenderness and
trust were mingled in expression, large
eyes of blue shaded by low-drooping lids
and long, dark lashes, and, in harmony
with all, a flood of golden hair which, in
the style permitted Jewish brides, fell un-
confined beneath her veil down to the
pillion upon which she sat. Her gown
was blue, as was her over-mantle, and a
veil and wimple of white linen framed
her features to perfection. Against her
breast she held a tiny infant, bound round
in Jewish fashion with layer on layer of
swaddling-clothes, and a single glance
showed the mother’s beauty and sweet
purity were echoed in her baby’s face.

"We are beholden to you, sir,’’ the
man thanked Klaus with simple courtesy.
"Those men were seeking our son’s life.
Only last night the Angel of the Lord
forewarned me in a dream to take the
young child and its mother and flee from
Nazareth to Egypt, lest the soldiers of
King Herod come upon us unawares. I
hear that they have murdered many little
ones whose parents had not warning from
the Lord.”

"Thou heard’st aright, old man,”
Klaus answered grimly, thinking of the
widow-woman’s son. "Back in the village
yonder is the sound of lamentation; Ra-
chel weeps for her dead and will not be
comforted. Howbeit,” he looked disdain-
fully upon the bodies in the road, "me-
seemeth I have somewhat paid the debt

ROADS

your kinsmen owed these murdering
dogs.”

"Alas!” the traveler returned; "you
have put your life in jeopardy for us, sir.
After this there is a price upon your head,
and Herod will not rest until he nails you
to a cross for all to see the vengeance of
the King.”

Klaus laughed, but not with mirth.
"Methinks the sword will sing its song,
and many more like these will journey to
the storm-land ere they hang me on the
doom tree,” he answered as he leant to
pick his sword up from the roadside turf.

The blue eyes of the woman were on
his as he spoke, and he stopped abashed.
Never in the score and two years of wild
life which had been his had Klaus the
Northman, Klaus the champion of gladia-
tors, felt a gaze like hers.

"Your baby, mistress,” he said awk-
wardly, "may I see its face before I go
my ways? ’Tis something to have saved a
little child from murderers’ steel — pity
’tis I was not in the village to save the
widow Rachel’s child from them, as
well.”

’The woman raised the infant in her
arms, and the little boy’s blue eyes were
fixed on Klaus. 'The Northman took a
forward step to stroke the smooth, pink
cheek, then, as if it had been a stone wall
that stopped him, halted where he stood.
For a voice was speaking to him, or,
rather, it was no mortal voice that spake,
but a sound that touched his ears, yet
seemed to come from nowhere.

"Klaus, Klaus,” the softly-modulated
voice proclaimed, "because thou hast done
this for me, and risked thy life and free-
dom for a little child, I say to thee that
never shall thou taste of death until thy
work for me is finished.”

Now, though the infant’s lips moved
not, Klaus knew the words proceeded
from him. At first he was astonished,
even frightened; for the world he knew

was peopled with strange spirit-beings,
all of whom were enemies to men. Yet as
he looked into the little boy’s blue eyes,
so calm, so knowing for an infant’s, he
felt his courage coming back, and made
answer as is fitting when addressing a
magician of more than usual power.

"Lord Jarl,” he said, "I would not live
alway. 'Ihere comes the time when arms
grow weak and sight is dim, however
strong and brave the heart may be, and a
man is no more able to take part in the
man’s game. Say, rather. Lord, that I
may die with sword and ax in hand, in
full vigor of my manhood and while the
crimson tide of battle runs full-spate. Let
it be that Odin’s beauteous daughters
deem me worthy to be taken from the
battlefield and tome aloft to that Val-
halla where the heroes play the sword-
game evermore.”

"Not so, my Klaus. *11100 who hast
put tliy life in forfeit for the safety of a
little child hast better things than that in
store for thee. When the name of Odin
is forgot, and in all the world there is no
man to do him reverence at his altars, thy
name and fame shall live; and laughing,
happy children shall praise thy goodness
and thy loving-kindness. *11100 shalt live
immortally in every childish heart so long
as men shall celebrate my birthday.”

"I shall live past Gotterdammerung?”

"So long as gleeful children praise thy
name at the period of winter solstice.”

"Then I shall be a mighty hero?”

"A hero to be held in loving memory
by every man who ever was a diild.”

“Lord Jarlkin, I think thou art mistak-
en. Rather would I die with the sword-
song in my ears and the din of battle for
a dirge, but if thou speakest sooth, why,
then, a man follows his star, and where
mine leads I go.”

Then Klaus unsheathed his sword and
flourished it tliree times above his head,
and finally brought its point to rest upon

WEIRD TALES

the road, for thus did heroes of the
Northland pay respect to their liege lords.

The father cried out in affright when
he heard the gray sword-blade whistle in
the air, but the mother locked on calmly,
nor did she seem to marvel that the
Northling spake in heathen language to
her infant, as though he answered to
unspoken words.

So Klaus bade them safe faring on
their way to Egypt land, and turned to
face him toward the North Star and the
road that led toward home.

2. The Road- to Calvary

1 UCIUS PONTIUS PILATE, Procurator of
J Judea, leant across the parapet and
looked down at the night-bound city.
Lights blossomed here and there among
the flat-roofed houses; now and then the
clatter of mailed hooves was heard upon
the cobblestones; almost incessantly came
the roar of jostling, fractious crowds. Je-
rusalem was crowded to the bursting-
point; for days the people had been
streaming through the Joppa gate, for a
great feast was in preparation — these
Jews were always celebrating either feast
or fast— and the police power of his le-
gionaries had been put upon its mettle.

"A turbulent and stiff-necked people,
these, my Claudius,” the Governor ad-
dressed the tall, blond-bearded man who
stood three paces to his left and rear.
"Ever disputing, always arguing and bick-
ering, everlastingly in tumult of some
sort. But yesterday, when the troops
marched from the citadel with the Eagles
of the Legion at their head, a band of
townsmen stoned tliem, crying out that
they bore idols through the Holy City’s
streets. It seems they hold it sin to make
an image in the likeness of anything that
walks or flies or swims. A stubborn, nar-
row-minded lot, methinks.”

"Aye, Excellence, a stubborn and re-
bellious lot,” the first centurion agreed.

'The Procurator laughed. "None knows
it better than myself, my Qaudius. Thou
wert here amongst them aforetimes, in
the days of the great Herod, I’ve been
told. How comes it that thou’rt here
again? Dost like the odor of this sacred
city of the Hebrews?”

The bearded soldier smiled sardoni-
callyi. "I served King Herod as a gladia-
tor a tricennium ago,” he answered.
"When my period of service was expired
I foimd myself without scar or wound,
and with a wallet filled with gold. I told
the prastor I would fight no more for
hire, and set out for my northern home,

but on the way ” he stopped and

muttered something which the Procurator
failed to catch.

"Yes, on the way?” the Roman
prompted.

"I became embroiled with certain sol-
diers of the King who sought to do a
little family violence. Herod swore a
vengeance on me, and I was hunted like
a beast from wood to desert and from
desert to mountain. At last I sought the
shelter which so many hunted men have
found, and joined the legions. Since then
I’ve followed where my star — ^and army
orders — led, and now once more I stand
within these city walls, safe from the ven-
geance of King Herod’s heirs.”

"And right glad am I that thou art
here,” the Governor declared. '"This is
no sinecure I hold, my Claudius. I have
but a single legion to police this seething
country, and treason and rebellion lift
their heads on every side. Do I do one
thing? The Jews cry out against me for
violating some one of their sacred rights
or customs. Do I do the other? Again
they howl to heaven that the iron heel of
Rome oppresses them. By Jupiter, had I
a dozen legions more — nay, had I but a
single legion more of men like thee, my

ROADS

Qaudius — I’d drive this mutinous rabble
at the lance-point till they howled like
beaten dogs for mercy!” He gazed down
at the city for a time in moody silence;
then:

"What talk is this I hear of one who
comes from Galilee claiming to be king
of the Jews? Think ye that it bodes sedi-
tion? Had they but a leader they could
rally to, I doubt not we should soon be
fighting for our lives against these pesti-
lent Judeans.”

"I do not think we need fear insurrec-
tion from that point, your Excellence,”
the soldier answered. "I saw this teacher
when he came into the city but four days
agone. Mild of mien is he, and very
medc and humble, riding on an ass’s colt
and preaching in the temple, bidding all
men live as brothers, fear God, honor the
King, and render unto Cassar that which
is his.”

"Ha, sayest thou? I had thought other-
wise. Caiaphas, the chief priest, tells me
he foments sedition, and urges that I
throw him into prison or give him over
to be crucified as one who preaches trea-
son to the Empire.”

"Caiaphas!” tlie big centurion pursed
his lips as though to spit. '"That fatted
swine! No wonder his religion bids him
to refrain from pigs’ flesh. If he ate of it
he would be a cannibal!”

Pilate nodded gloomily. His quarrel
with the high priest was an old one, and
one in which the victories were even.
Caiaphas had on occasion sent appeal to
Rome, subtly intimating that unless the
Governor yielded there was danger of
rebellion. Word came back to Pilate that
the Caesar held him personally responsible
for conditions in Judea, and that in case
of revolution his would be the blame.
Thus the high priest triumphed. On the
other hand, the Governor had advantage
in that appeal in criminal cases and mat-
ters of taxation lay with him, and by

making use of this authority he could
often bend the prelate to his will.

"I would we had another pontifex,”
he mused, "one more pliant to sugges-
tion than this sacerdotal fool who rules
their priestly council.”

The jingling clink of metal sword-
sheath on mailed kilts was heard as a
legionary hurried out upon the roof,
halted and saluted, then handed Claudius
a scroll. 'The centurion returned the mili-
tary salutation and, in turn, delivered the
rolled missive to the Procurator.

"By Pluto’s beard,” swore Pilate as he
broke the seal and read the message by
the light of a small lantern set upon
the parapet, "it comes sooner than we
thought, my Claudius! Caiaphas has
taken custody of this self-styled King of
Jews, tried him before the Sanhedrin and
judged him worthy to be crucified. Now
he brings the case to me on high petition.
What are we to do?”

"Why, bid the fat pig get him back
unto his sty, your Excellence. None but
Rome has jurisdiction in such cases. Caia-
phas can no more condemn a man to
death than he can don the toga of im-
perial authority ”

"Aye, but therein lies the danger. I
alone, as Procurator, can mete out sen-
tence of death, but if these priests and
their paid underlings should rouse the
louse-bit rabble to rebellion we have not
troops enough to put it down. Furtlier-
more, should insurrection come, Rome is
like to have my life. I am sent out here
to govern and to rule, but chiefly to col-
lect the tax. A people in rebellion pays
no tribute to tfie throne. Come, Claudius,
my toga. Let us hear what harm this un-
crowned king has done the state.”

A MURMUR like a storm-wind in the
treetops filled the hall of audience.
In the brilliant light of flambeaux double
files of praetorian guardsmen stood at stiff

'40

WEIRD TALES

attention as the Procurator took his seat
upon the ivory and purple chair of state.
Well forward in the hall, before the dais,
stood Caiaphas with Simeon and Annas
to his right and left. A knot of temple
guards — tawdry imitations of the Roman
legions — grouped about their prisoner, a
tall young man in white, bearded in the
Jewish fashion, but so fair of skin and
light of hair that he seemed to bear no
racial kinship to the swarthy men sur-
rounding him.

"Hail, Procurator!” Meticulously Caia-
phas raised his right hand in the Roman
fashion, then bowed low with almost
fawning oriental courtesy. "We come to
you for confirmation of die sentence we
have passed upon this blasphemer and
traitor to the Empire.”

Pilate’s salutation was a merest lifting
of the hand. '"The blasphemy is your
affair,” he answered shortly. "What trea-
son hath he wrought.^”

"He hath proclaimed himself a king,
and if you do not find that treason, then
thou art not Caesar’s friend!”

"Art thou in very truth King of the
Jews.^” the Governor turned curious eyes
upon die prisoner.

"Sayest thou this thing of m.e, or did
others tell thee of it?” the young man
answered.

"Am I a Jew?” the Procurator asked.
"Thy own nation and thy chief priests
have brought thee unto me for judgment.
What hast thou done?”

There came no answer from the pris-
oner, but the murmuring outside the gates
grew ominous. A mob was gathered at
the entnance, and the guards were having
trouble holding them in check.

Again the Procurator cliallenged: "Art
thou in trudi a king, and if so, of what
kingdom?”

'"rhou hast said it. To diis end was I
born, and for this cause came I into the

world, that I should bear witness unto the
truth ...”

"What is truth?” the Governor mused.
"I myself have heard the sages argue long
about it, but never have I found two who
agreed on it. Claudius!” he turned to the
centurion who stood behind his chair.

"Excellence!”

"I am minded to put these people to
the test. Go thou to the dungeons and
bring the greatest malefactor thou canst
find into the hall. We shall see how far
this bigotry' can go.”

As Claudius turned to execute the or-
der, the Governor faced the chief priest
and his satellites.

"I will have him scourged, then turn
him free,” he pronounced. "If he has
transgressed your laws the scourging will
be punishment enough; as to your charge
of treason, I find no fault in him.”

Docilely the prisoner followed a decu-
rion to the barrack-room v/here the sol-
diers stripped his garments off and lashed
him to a pillar, then laid a tracery of
forty stripes upon his naked back.

"The King of Jews is he?” laughed
the decurion. "Why, by the eyes of Juno,
every king should have a crown to call
his own; yet this one has no crown at all.
EIo, there, someone, make a fitting crown
for Jewry’s king?”

A chaplet of thorn-oranch was quickly
plaited and thrust upon the prisoner’s
head, and the long, sharp spines bit deep-
ly in his tender flesh, so that a jewel-like
diadem of ruby droplets dewed his brow.
Then another found a frayed and tattered
purple robe which they laid upon his
bleeding shoulders. Finally, a reed tom
from a hearth-broom was thmst between
his tight-bound wrists for scepter, and
thus regaled they set him on a table and
bowed the knee to him in mock humility,
w'hat time they hailed him as Judea’s new
king. At length they tired of the cruel
sport, and grinning broadly, brought him

ROADS

back and stood him In the hall before the
Governor and the priests.

"Behold the man!” the Procurator bade
as they brought tlie figure of humiliation
to the hall. "Behold your king!”

"We have no king but Cassar!” an-
swered Caiaphas self-righteously. "This
one has declared himself a king, and
whoso calls himself a king speaketh
against Cassar.”

Meanwhile Claudius was hastening to
the judgment hall with a miserable ob-
ject. The man was of great stature, but so
bowed with fetters that he could not stand
erect. His clothing hung in tatters, no
second glance was needed to know he was
a walking vermin-pasture; the members
of the guard shrank from him, fending
him away with spear-butts lest the lice
which swarmed upon his hair and gar-
ments get on them.

Then Pilate bade the prisoner from tlie
dungeons stand before the priests, and
motioned from him to the bound and
thorn-crowned captive.

"It is your custom, men of Judea, tliat
at the Passover I release to ye a prisoner,”
Pilate said. "Whom will ye therefore,
that I set at liberty, this convicted robber,
doomed to die upon the gallows tree, or
this one ye have called your king.?”

"We have no king but Caesar!”
shouted Caiaphas in rage. "Away with
this one. Crucify him!”

And outside the great bronze grilles
that barred the hall the rabble took the
cry up: "Away with him! Crucify him;
crucify him!”

"What, crucify your king?” the Procu-
rator asked in mock astonishment.

The carefully rehearsed mob of temple
hangers-on who sv.'armed about the gates
thundered back once more: "Crucify
him! Crucify him!”

"Water in a ewer, and a napkin, Clau-
dius,” ordered Pilate, and when his aide
returned he set the silver basin down be-

fore him, and laved his bands in water,
then dried them on the linen napkin. "I
am innocent of tlie blood of this just
man. See ye to it!” cried the Procurator
as he handed ewer and napkin back to
Claudius.

"His blood be on our heads and on our
children's heads!” responded Caiaphas,
and the chorus massed outside the judg-
ment hall took up the savage piean of
blood-guiltiness: "On our heads and on
our children’s! Crucify him!”

Lucius Pontius PiLate shrugged his
shoulders. "I have done the best I could,
my Claudius,” he said. "Let him be led
away to prison, and on the morrow have
him taken with the other adjudged mal-
efactors and crucified. My guard will have
no part in it, but I would that you go with
the execution party to make sure all is
regularly done and” — his thin lips parted
in a mocking, mirthless smile — "to put
my superscription on the cross to which
they hang him. The same nails that
pierce his members are like to prick the
vanity of Caiaphas, methinks,” he added,
chuckling to himself as though he rel-
ished some keen jest.

T he procession to the execution hill,
or "Place of Skulls,” began at dawn,
for crucifixion was a slow death, and the
morrow being Shabbath it was not law-
ful that the malefactors be left alive to
profane the sacred day with their expir-
ing groans. The crowds assembled in
the city to keep Passover lined the Street
of David and gathered in the alley-heads
to watch tlie march of the condemned,
making carnival of the occasion. Sweet-
meat venders and v/ater-sellers did a
thriving trade among the merryTOakers,
and one or two far-sighted merchants
who had come with panniers of rotten
fruit and vegetables found their wares
in great demand; for everyone enjoyed

WEIRD TALES

the sport of heaving offal at the convicts
as they struggled past beneath the burden
of their crosses.

Claudius did not go with them. The
Procurator rested late that morning, and
there were routine matters to engage his
time when he had finished at the bath.
The sun was several hours high when a
scrivener from the secretariat came into the
officium with the titulus the Governor
dictated, engrossed on stiffened parch-
ment. Pilate smiled with grim amuse-
ment as he passed the scroll to Claudius.

"Take thou this unto the place of exe-
cution, and with thy own hand fix it
over the young Prophet’s head,” he or-
dered. " ’Twill give Caiaphas and his
plate-lickers something fresh to whine
about.”

The centurion glanced down at the
scroll. In letters large enough for those
who walked to read yet not be forced to
stop or strain their eyes, it proclaimed:

lESVS NAZARENVS
REX IVDAEORVM

Which was to say: “This is Jesus” (for
such was the forename that the Prophet
bore) "King of the Jews.” Not only in
Latin, but in Hebrew ^d in Greek, as
well, was the legend writ, that all who
passed the place of crucifixion, whatever
tongue they spake, might read and under-
stand.

'"They have prated long about a king
who should sweep away the power of
Rome,” the Procurator smiled. "Let them
look upon him now, gibbeted upon a
cross. By Jupiter, I would that I could
see that fat priest’s face when he reads
the superscription!”

Three crosses crowned the bald-topped
hill when Claudius readied the place of
execution. On two of them hung burly
robbers, nailed by hands and feet, sup-
ported by the wooden peg, or sedule, set

like a dowel in the upri^t beam be-
tween their legs, that their bodies might
not sag too much. In the center, spiked
upon the tallest cross, hung the young
Prophet, his frailer body already begin-
ning to give way beneath the dreadfa'
torment it endured. A decurion set a
ladder up beside the cross, and armed
with nail and hammer Claudius mounted
quickly and fixed the placard to the up-
right beam above the bowed head of the
dying man.

A high, thin wailing cry of astonish-
ment and rage sounded as the legend on
the card appeared. "Not that!” screamed
Caiaphas as he put his hand up to his
throat and rent his splendid priestly robe.
"Not that, centurion! Yon superscription
labels this blasphemer with the very title
that he claimed, and for claiming which
he now hangs on the gallows. Take
down the card and change it so it reads
that he is not our king, but that he
claimed the kingly title in despite of
Caesar!”

There was something almost comic in
the priests’ malevolence as they fairly
gnashed their teeth with rage, and Claud-
ius, with the fighting-man’s instinctive
contempt for politicians, grinned openly
as he replied, " ’Twere best you made
complaint to Pilate, priest. What he has
written he has written, nor do I think he
will change yon title for all your whining
and complaints.”

"Cassar shall be told of this!” the
wrathful high priest snarled. "He shall
hear how Pilate mocked our people and
incited tliem to riot by labeling a mal-
efactor as our king ”

Claudius turned abruptly to the cen-
turion commanding the execution squad.
"Clear away this rabble,” he directed,
"Must we be pestered by their mouth-
ings?”

ROADS

From the figure on the central cross
a low moan came: "I thirst.”

Claudius took a sponge and dipped it
in the jar of sour wine and myrrh that
stood beside him on the ground. He put
it on a lance and held it to the sufferer’s
lips, but the poor, weak body was too
far spent to drink. A shudder ran
through it, and with a final flash of
strength the Prophet murmured: "It is
finished. Father, into Thy hands I com-
mend my spirit.” A last convulsive
spasm, and the thorn-crowned head fell
forward. All was over.

"We had best be finishing our work,”
the execution guard’s commander said
phlegmatically. "These priests are set on
mischief, and we’ll have a riot on our
hands if one of these should live until
the sundown.” He motioned to a burly
executioner who picked up a sledge and
methodically went about the task of
smashing the suspended felons’ arm- and
leg-bones.

"Now, by Father Odin’s ravens, thou
shalt not break the Prophet’s legs,”
Claudius declared as he snatched a
guardsman’s spear. "Let him die a man’s
death!” With the precision taught by
years of training in the circus and on the
battlefield, he poised the lance and drove
the long bronze spearhead between the
Prophet’s ribs, sinking it deep into the
heart. As he withdrew the point a
stream of water mixed with blood gushed
forth, and Claudius returned the sol-
dier’s spear. " ’Tis long since I have
done that favor to a helpless man,” he
muttered as his memory flew back to his
days in the arena when the blood-mad
mob withheld the mercy sign and he had
thrust his sword or lance through his de-
feated adversary — often the man with
whom he’d drunk and diced the night
before. "By Frigga’s eyes,” he added as
he looked at the pale body stretched upon

the cross, "he’s beautiful! I've heard he
called himself the son of God, nor is that
hard to credit. ’Tis no man, but a god
who hangs on yonder gallows — Baldur
the Beautiful, slain by foul treacheries!”

A ringing sounded in his ears like
the humming of innumerable bees, and
through it he heard words, words in a
voice he had not heard in more than
thirty years, but which he recognized in-
stantly. "Klaus, thou took pity on a little
child attacked by murderers in days agone;
this day thy pity bade thee save a dying
man from brutish violence. According to
thy lights thou dealtest mercifully when
thou thrust the spear into my side.
Knowest thou not me, Klaus?”

"Lord Jarlkin!” Klaus turned round
and gazed in wonder at the slight, wilted
body. “The little child whom I assisted
on his way to Egypt land! What wouldst
thou with thy liegeman. Lord? Did not
my mercy-stroke drive true — is my w’ork
unfinished?” He stretched his hand out
for the soldier’s spear again, but:

"Thy work is not yet started, Klaus.
I will call and thou wilt know my voice
when I have need of thee.”

The soldiers of the guard and the
crowd of hang-jawed watAers at the exe-
cution ground were wonderstruck to see
the Procurator’s chief centurion draw
himself up and salute the body pendent
on the cross as though it were a tribune,
or tlie Governor himself.

D ark clouds obscured tlie sun, and
menacing thunder mingled with the
stabbing spears of lightning as Klaus hur-
ried through the Street of David on his
way back to the Governor’s palace. Once
or tw’ice there came a rumbling in the
bowels of the earth, and the solid ground
reeled drunkenly beneath his feet.

"Siguna goes to drain her cup, and Loki
writhes beneath the sting of serpent-

WEIRD TALES

venom,” Klaus muttered as he dug his
heels into his horse’s sides. It would not
be comfortable in that narrow street when
the fury of the earthquake began to
shake the buildings down. A temblor
shook the riven earth afresh, and an ava-
lanche of brcJcen tile and rubble slid into
the street, almost blocking it. Klaus
leaped down from his saddle and gave
his horse a smart blow on the flank.

"Go thou, good beast, and Thor see
thee safely to thy stable,” he bade, then
took shelter by the blank-walled houses,
dashing forward a few steps, then shrink-
ing back again as spates of falling ma-
sonry cataracted overhead and fell crash-
ing on the cobbles of the roadway.

"Ai — ai — ahee!” a woman’s scream
came thin-edged with terror. "Help, for
the love of God — save me or I die! Have
mercy. Master!”

The flicker of a lightning-flash lit up
the pitch-black night-in-day that flooded
through the street, and by its quivering
light Klaus saw a woman’s body lying
in the roadway. A timber from a brcJcen
house had fallen on her foot, pinioning
her to the cobbles, and even as she
screamed, a fresh convulsion of the earth
shook down a barrow-load of broken
brick and tile, scattering brash and lime-
dust over her. A stone fell clanging on
his helmet as he rushed across the gloom-
choked street, and a parapet-fragment
crashed behind his heels as he leant to
prize the timber off her ankle. She lay
as limp as death within his arms as he
dashed back to the shelter of the wall,
and for a moment he thought he had
risked his life in rescuing one beyond the
need of succor; but as he laid her down
upon die flagstones her great eyes opened
and her little hands crept up to clasp
themselves about his neck. "Art safe, my
lord.^” she asked tremulously.

"Aye, for the nonce,” he answered.

"but we tempt the gods by staying here.:
Canst walk?”

"I’ll try.” She drew herself erect and
took a step, then sank down with a moan.
"My foot — ’tis broke, I fear,” she gasped.
"Do thou go on, my lord; thou hast done
thy duty to the full already. ’Twould not
be meet to stay and risk thy life for

"Be silent, woman,” he commanded
gruffly. "Raise thy arms.”

Obediently she put her arms about his
shoulders and he lifted her as though she
were a child. Then, his cloak about her
head to fend off falling fragments of die
buildings, he darted from house to house
until the narrow street was cleared and
they came at length into a little open
space.

It was lighter here, and he could see
his salvage. She was a pretty thing,
scarce larger than a half-grown child, and
little past her girlhood. Slender she was,
yet with the softly rounded curves of
budding womanhood. Her skin, deep
sun-kissed olive, showed every violet vein
through its veil of lustrous tan. Her
hands, dimpled like a child’s, were tipped
with long and pointed nails on which a
sheathing of bright goldleaf had been
laid, so they shone like tiny mirrors. Her
little feet, gilt-nailed like her hands,
were innocent of sandals and painted
bright with henna on the soles. On
ankles, wrists and arms hung bangles of
rose-gold studded thick with lapis-lazuli,
topaz and bright garnet, while rings of
the same precious metal hung from each
ear almost to her creamy shoulders. A
diadem of gold thick-set with gems was
circled round her brow, binding back the
curling black locks which lay clustering
round her face. Her small, firm breasts
were bare, their nipples stained with
henna, and beneath her bosom was a zone
of woven golden wire from which a robe

ROADS

of sheerest gauze was hung, bound round
the hips with a shawl of brilliant orange"
silk embroidered with pink shells and
roses. Ground antimony had been rubbed
upon her eyelids, and her full, voluptuous
lips were stained a brilliant red with
powdered cinnabar.

Klaus recognized her: one of the he-
taerae from the house of love kept by
the courtezan of Magdala before she left
her harlotry to follow after the young
Prophet they had crucified that morning.
Her mistress gone, the girl had taken
service as a dancer at Agrippa’s court.
He drew away a little. His clean-bred
northern flesh revolted at the thought of
contact witli the pretty little strumpet.

"What didst thou in the street?” he
asked. "Were there so few buyers of thy
wares within the palace that thou must
seek them in the highways?”

"I — I came to see the Master,” she
sobbed softly. "I had the dreadful mal-
ady, and I sought His cure.”

"Aye? And did thou find it?”

"Yea, that did I. As He went by, all
burdened with his gibbet, I called to Him
and asked His mercy, and He did but
raise the fingers of one hand and look on
me, and behold — I am clean and whole
again. See, is not my skin as fresh and
clean as any maiden’s?”

Klaus moved a little farther from her,
but she crept toward him, holding out her
hands for him to toudi. "Behold me, I
am clean!” she whispered rapturously.
"No more will I be shunned of men ”

"By this one thou wilt be,” he broke in
grimly. "What have I to do with thee
and thy kind, girl? The earthquake pass-
es; it is safe for thee to walk the streets.
Get thee gone.”

"But my broken foot — I cannot walk.
Wilt thou not help me to my place ”

"Not I, by Thor. Let scented darlings
of the palace see to that.” He shook her

clinging hands aw'ay and half rose to his
feet when a voice— the well-remembered
voice his inward ear had heard before —
came to him:

"Despise her not. I have had mercy
on her, and thou — and I — ^have need of
her. Klaus, take her to thee.”

He stood irresolute a moment; then;
"I hear and obey. Lord,” he answered
softly and sank down again upon the
turf. "How art tliou called?” he asked
the girl.

"Erinna.”

"A Greek?”

"Tyrian, my lord.” She moved closer
to him and rubbed her supple body
against his breastplate with a gentle,
coaxing gesture. "They brought me
over the bright water whilst I was still a
child, and schooled me in the arts of
love, and I am very beautiful and much
desired, but now I am all thine.” She
bowed her head submissively and put
his hand upon it. "Thou didst battle
with the earthquake for me, and rived
me from his clutches; now am I thine
by right of capture.”

Klaus smiled, a trifle grimly. "What
need have I, a plain, blunt soldier, of
such as thee?”

"I am very subtle in tlie dance, and
can sing and play sweet music, even on
the harp and flute and cymbals. Also I
am skilled at cookery, and when thou
hast grown tired of me thou canst sell
me for much gold ”

"Men of my race sell not their
wives ”

"Wife? Saidst thou wife, my lord?”
She breathed the word inaedulously.

"Am I a Greek or Arab to have slave-
girls travel in my wake? Come, rouse
tliee up; we must to the palace, where
quarters can be found for dice until J
take thee to mine own.”

WEIRD TALES

T ears streamed down her face, cut-
ting little rivers in the rouge with
which her cheeks were smeared, but her
smile looked through the tear-drops as
the sun in April shines through showers
of rain. "In very truth. He told my
future better than I knew!” she cried
ecstatically, and, to Klaus’s utter con-
sternation, bent suddenly and pressed a
fervid kiss upon his buskin.

"What charlatan foretold thy for-
tune?” he demanded, raising the girl
and crooking an arm beneath her knees,
for her broken foot was swelling fast,
and walking was for her impossible.

"'The Master whom they crucified —
may dogs defile their mothers’ graves!
When I bowed me in the dust and
begged Him to have pity on me. He
looked at me and smiled, e’en though
He trod the way to torture and to death,
and was borne down with the gallows’
wei^t, and He told me, 'Woman, thy
desire shall be unto thee.’ I thought He

meant that I was healed, but ” She

flung both arms about her bearer’s neck
and crushed his face against her bosom
as she sighed ecstatically.

"But what, wench?”

"I have seen thee from afar, my
Claudius. Long have I watched thee
and had pleasure in thy manly beauty.
At night I used to dream that thou
wouldst notice me, perchance come unto
me, or even buy me for thy slave; but
that ever I should bear the name of
wife” — again her voice broke on a sigh,
but it was a sigh of utter happiness —

"that I, Erinna the hetasra ”

"Thy Greek name likes me not,” he
interrupted.

"What’s in a name, my lord? I’ll
bear w'hatever name thou givest me, and
be happy in it, since ’tis given me by
you. By Aphrodite’s brows, I’ll come

like any dog whene’er thou callest me by
such name as you choose to give ”

"Let be this talk of dogs and slaves,”
he broke in sharply. "Thou’lt be a wife
and equal — aye, by Thor’s iron gaunt-
lets, and whoso fails to do thee honor
shall be shorter by a head!”

Pilate’s legion was recruited largely
from Germanic tribes, and enough of
his own people could be found to en-
able Klaus to have a marriage ceremony
shaped on Northern custom. Erinna’s
name was changed to Unna, and on the
day they wed she sat in the high bride’s-
seat robed in modest white with a
worked head-dress on her clustering
black ringlets, a golden clasp about her
waist and gold rings on her arms and
fingers. And the Northlings raised their
drinking-horns aloft and shouted
"Skoal!” and "Waes heal!” to the bride
and bridegroom, and when the feast was
finished and the bride’s-cup had been
drunk, because her broken foot was not
yet mended, Klaus bore Unna in his
arms unto the bride’s-bed. 'Thus did
Claudius the centurion, who was also
Klaus the Northling, wed a woman out
of Tyre in the fashion of the Northmen.

N ow talk ran througji the city of
Jerusalem that the Prophet whom
the priests had done to death was risen
from the tomb. Men said that while
His sepulcher was watched by full-
armed guards an angel came and rolled
the stone away, and He came forth, all
bright and glorious. And many were
the ones who testified that they had seen
Him in the flesh.

'The priests and temple hangers-on
cast doubt upon the story, and swore
that whilst the guardsmen slept the
Prophet’s followers had come and stolen
Him away, but Klaus and Unna both
believed. “Said 1 not He was a god,

ROADS

e’en as He hanged upon the gallows
tree?” asked Klaus. "Baldur the Beau-
tiful is He; Baldur the Fair cannot be
holden by the gates of Hel; He is
raised up again in their despite,”

’’He is in truth the Son of God, as
Mary Magdalene said,” Unna answered
as she laid her cheek against her hus-
band’s breast. "He healed me of my
malady and gave me that which I de-
sired above all things.”

Klaus kissed his new-made wife upon
the mouth. "He said that I had need of
thee, my sweetling,” he whispered soft-
ly. "I knew it not, but He spake sooth.
And,” he added even lower, "He said
that He likewise had need of thee. We
shall hear His call and answer Him
whenever He shall please to summon
us, though the summons come from
lowest Niflheim.”

3- The Long, Long Road

M en grew old and grayed and died
in the service of Imperial Rome,
but neither death nor old age came to
Klaus. His ruddy hair retained its sheen,
and when the men who joined the le-
gions as mere beardless youths laid their
swords aside and sate them in the ingle-
nook to tell brave tales of battles fought
and won upon the sea or field he was still
instinct with youthful vigor. For years he
followed Pilate’s fortunes, acting as his
aide-de-camp and confidant, and when
the aging Governor went from Palestine
to Helvetia it was Klaus who went with
him as commander of his soldiery. When
death at last came to his patron, Klaus
stood among the mourners and watched
the funeral flames mount crackling from
the pyre, then turned his face toward
Rome, where men of valor still were in
demand. With the rank of a tribune he
fought Arminius under Varus, and

though the legions suffered such defeat
as they had never known before when
the German tribesmen swept down on
them in Teutoburg Forest, the soldiers
under his command made an orderly re-
treat.

As commander of a legion he stood
with Constantine the Great at Malvian
Bridge when, beneath tlie emblem of the
once-despised cross, Maximian’s youthful
son defeated old Maxentius and won the
purple toga of the Caesars. With Con-
stantine he sailed across the Bosporus and
helped to found the world’s new capital
at %2antium.

Emperors came and w-ent. The king-
dom of the Ostrogoths arose in Italy, and
strange, bearded men who spoke bar-
barian tongues ruled in the Caesars’ stead.
But though the olden land of Latium no
longer offered reverence to the Empire,
it owed allegiance to the name of Him
the priests had crucified so long ago in
Palestine; for nowhere, save in the frozen
fjords and forests of the farthest North
and in the sun-smit deserts of the South,
did men fail to offer prayer and praise
and sacrifice to the Prophet who had
come to save His people from their sins,
and had been scornfully rejeaed by their
priests and leaders.

And now a mighty conflict rose be-
tween the Christians of the West and the
followers of Mahound in the East; and
Klaus, who knew the country round
about Jerusalem as he knew the lines that
marked his palms, rode forth with Tan-
cred and Count Raymond and Godfrey
of Bouillon to take the Holy Gty from
the Paynims’ hands. With him rode his
ever-faithful, tlirice-beloved Unna, armed
and mounted as a squire. Never since the
morning of their marriage had she and
he been out of voice-call of each other;
for she had shared his life in camp and
field, marching with the legions dressed
in armor like a man, going with him to

WEIRD TALES

Byzantium when the new Empire was
founded, riding at his side across the
troubled continent of Europe when the
old Empire broke to pieces and the little
kings and dukes and princelings set their
puny courts up in the midst of their
walled towns. Sometimes she cut her long
hair close and went forth in male attire;
again, in those brief intervals of peace
when they dwelt at ease in some walled
city, she let her tresses grow and assumed
the garb of ladies of the time, and ruled
his house with gentleness and skill as be-
came the mate of one who rated the
esteem of prince and governor, general
and lord, for her husband’s fame at
weaponry and sagacity in war had given
him great standing among those who had
need of strong arms and wise heads to
lead their soldiery and beat their foemen
back.

Now, Klaus, with Unna fighting at his
elbow as his squire, had assailed the
walls when Godfrey and Count Eustace
and Baldwin of the Mount leaped from
the flaming tower and held tlie Paynims
back till Tancred and Duke Robert broke
Saint Stephen’s Gate and forced their
way into the Holy City; but when the
mailed men rode with martial clangor
through the streets and massacred the
populace, they took no part. In the half-
darkness of the rhosque that stood hard
by the ancient Street of David where
aforetime the young Prophet had trod
the Via Dolorosa tliey saw old Moslems
with calm features watch their sons’
heads fall upon the musty praying-carpets,
then in turn submit to slaughter as the
Christians’ axes split their skulls or
swords ripped through their bellies. They
saw the Paynim women cling in terror to
their men-folk’s bending knees, what
time they pleaded for mercy, panting and
screaming till sword or lance ripped open
their soft bodies and they cried no more.
They tried to stop the wanton killing.

and begged the men-at-arms and knights
to stay their hands and show their help-
less, beaten foemen clemency, whereat
the priests and monks who urged the
wearers of the cross to slay and spare
not cried out on them, and swore they
were no true and loyal lovers of the
Prince of Peace.

But when the killing and the rapine
ceased and men went forth to worship
at the holy places, Klaus and Unna
walked the city, and their eyes were soft
with memories. "Here it was they led
Him to the place of crucifixion,” Unna
told a group of noble women who had
come to make the pilgrimage to Calvary
upon their knees, and, "Here He raised
His hand and blessed the very men who
did Him injury.” But when the Frank-
ish women heard her they would not
believe, but hooted her away; for the
priests, who never till that time had seen
Jerusalem, had shown them where the
Master’s blessed feet had trod, and sooth,
a learned holy man knew more of sacred
things than this wild woman of the
camp who wore her hair clipped short
and swaggered it amongst the men-at-
arms with a long sword lashed against
her thigh!

But when she told them that she knelt
upon those very stones and watched
Cyrenian Simon bear the cross toward
Golgotha, they shrank from her in terror
and crossed themselves and called on
every saint tliey knew for succor, and
named her witch and sorceress. And
presently came priests’ men who bound
her arms with cords and took her to the
prison-house beneath the Templars’
stable and swore that on the morrow they
would burn her at the stake, tliat all
might see what fate befell a woman who
spake blasphemy within the very confines
of the Holy City.

When she came not to their dwelling-
place that night, Klaus was like a man

W. T.— S

ROADS

made mad by those foul drugs the Pay-
nims use to give them courage in the
fight. And he went unto the prison-house
and smote the warders where they stood,
so that they fled from him as from a
thing accursed, and with his mighty ax
he brake the heavy doors that shut her in,
and they w'ent forth from that place and
took to horse and rode until they reached
the sea, where they took ship and sailed
away. And no man durst stand in their
way, for the fire of Northern lightnings
burned in Klaus’s eyes, and he raged
like a wild berserker if any bade them
stand and give account of w’hence they
came and where their mission led them.

T he years slipped swiftly by like
rapid rivers running in their courses,
and Klaus and Unna rode the paths of
high adventure. Sometimes they rested in
the cities, but more often they were on
the road, or fighting in the armies of
some prince or duke or baron, and always
fame and fortune came to them. But
they could not abide in any place for
long, for betimes they came in conflict
with the priests; for when these heard
them speak of the Great Teacher as
though they had beheld Him in the flesh
they sought to have them judged as witch
and warlock, and so great was these
men’s power that had they not been fleet
of foot and strong of arm they were like
to have been burned a dozen times and
more.

"Now, by the Iron Gloves of Thor,”
swore Klaus one time when they were fly-
ing from the priestly wrath, "meseemeth
that of all men on the earth the priest
doth change the least. ’Twas Caiaphas
and his attendants whose foul plottings
hanged our Master on tlie cross, and to-
day the truth He died for is perverted
and withheld by the very men who claim
to be His prie^s and servants!”

W.T.— 4

O NE Yuletide Klaus and Unna lodged
them in a little city by the Rhine.
The harvest was not plentiful that year,
and want and famine stalked the streets
as though an enemy had set siege to the
town. The feast of Christmas neared,
but within the burghers’ houses there
was little merriment. Scarce food had
they to keep starvation from their bellies,
and none at all to make brave holiday
upon the birthday of the Lord.

Now as they sate within their house
Klaus thought him of the cheerless faces
of the children of the town, and as he
thought he took a knife and block of wood
and carved therefrom the semblance of a
little sleigh the like of which the people
used for travel when the snows of winter
nude the roads impassable for wheels or
horsemen.

And when Unna saw his work she
laughed aloud and clipped him in her
arms and said, “My husband, make thou
more of those, as many as the time ’twixt
now and Christmas Eve permits! We
have good store of sweetmeats in our
vaults, even figs from Smyrna and sweet,
dried grapes from Cyprus and from
Sicily, and some quantity of barley sugar,
likewise. Do thou carve out the little
sleighs and I will fill them to the brim
with comfits; then on the Eve of Christ
His birthday we’ll go amongst the poor-
est of tlie townsmen and leave our little
gifts upon their doorsteps, that on the
morrow when the children wake they
shall not have to make their Christmas
feast on moldy bread and tliin meat
broth.”

'The little sleighs piled up right
swiftly, for it seemed to Klaus his fingers
had a nimbleness they never had before,
and he whittled out the toys so fast that
Unna was amazed and swore his skill at
wood-carving was as great as with the
sword and ax; whereat he laughed and
whittled all the faster.

WEIRD TALES

It was bitter cold on Qiristmas Eve,
and the members of the night watch hid
themselves in doorways or crept into the
cellars to shield tliem from the snow that
rode upon the storm-wind’s howling
blast; so none saw Klaus and Unna as
they made their rounds, leaving on each
doorstep of the poor a little sleigh piled
high with fruits and sweets the like of
which those children of that northern
clime had never seen. But one small lad
j whose empty belly would not let him
sleep look^ from his garret window and
espied the scarlet cloak Klaus wore, for
Klaus went bravely dressed as became
a mighty man of valor and one who
walked in confidence with princes. And
the small boy marveled mu^ that Klaus,
the mighty soldier of whose feats and
fame men spoke with bated breath,
should stop before his doorstep. But anon
he slept, and when he waked he knew not
if it were a dream he dreamed, or if he
had seen Klaus pass through the storm.

But when the church bells called the
folk to prayer and praise next morning
and the house doors were unbarred and
the people found the sleighs all freighted
with their loads of comfits on their
thresholds, great and loud was the rejoic-
ing, and little children who had thought
that Christmas was to be another day of
fasting and starvation clapped their hands
and raised their voices in wild shouts of
happy laughter. And Klaus and Unna
who went privily about the streets saw
their work and knew that it was good,
and their hearts beat quicker and their
eyes shone bright with tears of happiness
for that they had brought joy where sor-
row was before, and they clasped each
other by the hand and exchanged a kiss
like lovers when their vows are new, and
each swore that the other had conceived
the scheme, and each denied it; so in
sweet argument they got them to the min-
ster, and then unto their house, where

their feast of goose and herbs was sweeter
for the thought of joy they had brought
to the children of the town.

But when the priests were told about
the miracle of fruits and sweets that came
unmarked upon the doorsteps of the
poor they were right wroth, and swore
this was no Christian act, but the foul
design of some fell fiend who sought to
steal men’s souls away by bribing them
with Satan’s sweetmeats.

The lad whose waking eyes had seen
Klaus’s scarlet mantle told his tale, and
all the poor folk praised his name, and
one and all they named him Santa Klaus,
a saint who walked the earth in human
guise and had compassion on the suffer-
ing of the poor.

But the Aurchmen went imto the dty's
governor and said, "Go to, this man
foments rebellion. He hath sought to
buy thy people’s loyalty away by little
gifts made to their children. Look thou
to it, if thou failest to put him in re-
straint before he does more mischief thou
art no friend of the landgrave from whom
thou boldest this city as a fief.”

So the graf would fain have put them
into prison on a charge of treason, but
the townsmen came to them and warned
them of the plot; so they escaped before
the men-at-arms came clamoring at their
door, and fled across the winter snows.
Behind them swept a raving tempest, so
that those who sought to follow were en-
gulfed in drifting snows and lost their
tracks upon the road, and finally turned
and fought their way back to the city with
the tidings that they surely must have
perished in the storm.

But Klaus and Unna did not die, for
the storm that followed hard upon their
heels delayed its pace to cover their re-
treat, and anon they came unto another
town where they rested safe throughout
the winter, and in the springtime set out
on their journeys once again.

ROADS

N ow their travels took them to the
Baltic shores, and as they passed
across the country of tlae Lappmen they
came into a valley ringed about with nine
small hills, and no man durst go to that
place; for ’twas said the little brown men
of the land beneath the eartli had power
there, and whoso met them face to face
was doomed to be their servant alway,
and to slave and toil beneath the ground
for evermore, because these people had
no souls, but were natheless gifted with
a sort of immortality, so that they should
live until the final Judgment Day when
they and all the great host of the olden
gods should stand before the throne of
the Most High and hear sentence of an
everlasting torment.

But Klaus and Unna had no fear of
the aelf people or of any harm that they
might do, for boldi of them wore crosses
round their necks, and in addition each
was girt with a long sword, and the ax
that had aforetime laid the mightiest of
foemen in the dust was hung upon
Klaus’s saddle-bow.

So they bent their road among the
haunted Nine Hills, and behold, as they
rode seaward came a great procession of
the selfmen bearing packs upon their
backs and singing dolefully. "W'aes hael
to thee, small aelfmen,” Klaus made chal-
lenge; "why go ye sadly thus, singing
songs of dole and drearihead.’”

"Alack and well-a-day!” the self King
answered; "we take our way to Niflheim,
there to abide until the time shall come
when we are sent to torment everlasting,
for the people whom aforetime we did
help, cry out upon us now and say that
we are devils, and set no pan of milk or
loaf of barley bread beside their doorstep
for us; nor do they tell the tales their
fathers told of kindly deeds done by the
Little People, but only tales of terror and
of widcedness. For this we are no longer

able to come out and play upon the
earth’s good face, neither to dance and
sing by moonlight in the glades, and,
worst of all, our human neighbors have
no use for our good offices, but drive us
hence with curse and song and bell and
book and candle.”

Now Klaus laughed long and loud
when he heard this, for well was he re-
minded of the time when he and Unna
had to flee for very life because they had
done kindness to the poor; so he made
answer; "Would ye then find it happi-
ness to serve your human neighbors, if ye
could?”

"Aye, marry, that would we,” the aelf
King told him. "We be great artificers
in both wood and stone and metal. There
are no smiths like unto us, nor any who
can fashion better things of wood, and
mudi would it delight our hearts to
shape things for men’s service and bestow
them on the good men of the farms and
villages; but they, taught by their priests,
will have none of our gifts. Why, to
call a thing a fairy gift is to insult the
giver in these days!”

Now as Klaus listened to this plaint
there came a ringing as of many bells
heard far away within his ears, and once
again the voice he knew spake to him,
and he heard: "Klaus, thou hast need of
these small men. Take them with thee on
the road which shall be opened to thy
feet.”

So he addressed the aelfmen’s King and
said: "Wouldst go with me unto a place
of safety, and there work diligently to
make the things which cliildren joy to
have? If thou wilt do it, I’ll see thy gifts
are put into the hands of those who will
take joy in them and praise thy name for
making them.”

"My lord, if thou wilt do this thing for
us, I am thy true and loyal vassal now
and ever, lx)th I and all my people,”

WEIRD TALES

swore the aslf King. So on the fresh
green turf he kneeled him down and
swore tire oatli of fealty unto Klaus, ac-
knowledging himself his vassal and swear-
ing to bear true and faithful service unto
him. Both he and all his host of tiny
men pronounced the oath, and when they
rose from off their knees tliey hailed
Klaus as their lord and leader.

Then from their treasure-store they
brought a little sleigh of gold, no larger
than the helmet which a soldier wears to
shield his skull from sword-blows, but so
cunningly contrived that it could stretch
and swell till it had room for all of them,
both the self King and his host of dwarfs,
and Klaus and Unna and their steeds, as
well. And when they had ensconced
them in the magic sleigh they harnessed
to it four span of tiny reindeer, and at
once these grew until they were as large
as war-steeds, and with a shout the aslf
King bade them go, and straightway they
rose up into the air and drew the sleigh
behind them, high above the heaving
billows of the Baltic.

"Bid them ride on until they have the
will to stop," Klaus ordered, and the aslf
King did as he commanded, and pres-
ently, far in the frozen North where the
light of the bridge Bifrost rests upon the
earth, the reindeer came to rest. And
there they builded them a house, strong-
timbered and thick-walled, with lofty
chimneys and great hearths where mighty
fires roared ceaselessly. And in the rooms
about the great hall they set their forges
up, and the air was filled with sounds of
iron striking iron as the nimble, cunning
dwarfs fashioned toys of metal while
others of their company plied saw and
knife and chisel, making toys of wood,
and others still made dolls of plaster and
of chinaware and clothed them in small
garments deftly shaped from cloth which

cunning selfmen under Unna’s teaching
fashioned at the great looms they had
built.

When Christmastide was come again
there was a heap of toys raised mountain-
high, and Klaus put them in the magic
sleigh and whistled to the magic rein-
deer, and away they sped across the
bridge Bifrost where in olden days men
said the gods had crossed to Asgard.
And so swiftly sped his eight small
steeds, and so well his sleigh was stocked
with toys, that before the light of Qirist-
mas morning dawned there was a gift to
joy the heart of children laid upon each
hearth, and Klaus came cloud-riding back
again unto his Northern home and there
his company of cunning dwarfs and his
good wife Unna awaited him, and a
mighty feast was made, and the tables
groaned beneath the weight of venison
and salmon and fat roast goose, and the
mead-horns frothed and foamed as they
bid each other skoal and woes hael and
drank and drank again to childhood’s
happiness.

Long years ago Klaus laid aside his
sword, and his great ax gathers rust upon
the castle wall; for he has no need of
weapons as he goes about the work fore-
told for him that night so long ago upon
the road to Bethlehem.

Odin’s name is but a memory, and in
all the world none serves his altars, but
Klaus is very real today, and every year
ten thousand times ten thousand happy
children wait his coming; for he is
neither Claudius the centurion nor Klaus
the mighty man of war, but Santa Klaus,
the very patron saint of little children,
and his is the work his Master chose for
him that night two thousand years ago;
his the long, long road that has no turn-
ing so long as men keep festival upon
the anniversary of the Savior’s birth.

"Sometliing pale and cloudy was
making iUeli visible,"

airy Ones Shall Dance

By CANS T. FIELD

’A novel of a hideous, stark horror that struck during a spirit seance — a tale of
terror and sudden death, and the frightful thing that
laired in the Devil’s Croft

Foreword vast army of skeptics of which 1 once

made one. Therefore I write it brief and

T O WHOM It May Concern: bald. If my story seems unsteady in

Few words are best, as Sir spots, that is because the hand that writes
Philip Sidney once wrote in chal- it still quivers from my recent ordeal,
lenging an enemy. The present account Shifting the metaphor from duello to
will be accepted as a challenge by the military engagement, this is but the first

WEIRD TALES

gun of the bombardment. Even now
sworn statements are being prepared by
all others who survived the strange and,
in some degree, unthinkable adventure I
am recounting. After that, every great
psychic investigator in the country, as
well as some from Europe, will begin
researches, I wish that my friends and
brother-magicians, Houdini arid Thurs-
ton, had lived to bear a hand in them,

I must apologize for the strong admix-
ture of the personal element in my narra-
tive, Some may feel that I err against
good taste. My humble argument is that
I was not merely an observer, but an
actor, albeit a clumsy one, throughout
the drama.

As to the setting forth of matters
which many will call impossible, let me
smile in advance. Things happen and
have always happened, that defy the nar-
row science of test-tube and formula, 1
can only say agedn that 1 am writing the
truth, and that my statement will be sup-
ported by my companions in the adven-
ture,

Talbot Wills.
November 15, 1937.

1, "Why Must the Burden of Proof
Rest with the Spirits?"

*''\r ou don’t believe in psychic phe-
X nomena,” said Doctor Otto Zoberg
yet again, "because you won’t,"

This with studied kindness, sitting in
the most comfortable chair of my hotel
room. I, at thirty-four, silently hoped I
would have his health and charm at fifty-
four — he was so rugged for all his lean
length, so well groomed for all his
tweeds and beard and joined eyebrows,
so articulate for all his accent. Doctor
Zoberg quite apparently liked and ad-
mired me, and I felt guilty once more
that I did not entirely return the compli-
ment.

"I know that you are a stage magi-
cian ’’ he began afresh.

"I was once,’’ I amended, a little sulk-
ily. My early career had brought me con-
siderable money and notice, but after
the novelty of show business was worn
off I had never rejoiced in it. Talboto the
Mysterious — it had been impressive, but
tawdry. Better to be Talbot Wills, lec-
turer and investigator in the field of ex-
posing fraudulent mediums.

For six years I had known Doctor Otto
Zoberg, the champion of spiritism and
mediumism, as rival and companion. We
had first met in debate under auspices of
the Society for Psychical Research in Lon-
don. I, young enough for enthusiasm but
also for carelessness, had been badly out-
thought and out-talked. But afterward.
Doctor Zoberg had praised my arguments
and my delivery, and had graciously
taken me out to a late supper. The fol-
lowing day, there arrived from him a
present of helpful books and magazines.
Our next platform duel found me in a
position to get a little of my own back;
and he, afterward, laughingly congratu-
lated me on turning to account the ma-
terial he had sent me. After that, we
were public foemen and personal insep-
arables. Just now we were touring the
United States, debating, giving exhibi-
tions, visiting mediums. 'The night’s pro-
gram, before a Washington audience
liberally laced with high officials, had
ended in what we agreed was a draw;
and here we were, squabbling good-
naturedly afterward.

"Please, Doctor,” I begged, offering
him a cigarette, "save your charges of
stubbornness for the theater.”

He waved my case aside and bit the
end from a villainous black cheroot. "I
wouldn’t say it, here or in public, if it
weren’t true, Talbot. Yet you sneer ev'en
at telepathy, and only half believe in

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

mental suggestion. 'Ach, you are worse
than Houdini.”

"Houdini was absolutely sincere,” I
almost blazed, for I had known and
worshipped that brilliant and kindly
prince of conjurers and fraud-finders.

*'Ach, to be sure, to be sure,” nodded
2k)berg over his blazing match. "I did
not say he was not. Yet, he refused
proof — the proof that he himself em-
bodied. Houdini was a great mystic, a
medium. His power for miracles he did
not know himself.”

I had heard that before, from Conan
Doyle as well as Zoberg, but I made no
comment. Zoberg continued:

"Perhaps Houdini was afraid — if any-
thing could frighten so brave and wise a
man it would assuredly come from with-
in. And so he would not even listen to
argument.” He turned suddenly somber.
"Perhaps he knew best, ]a. But he was
stubborn, and so are you.”

"I don’t think you can say that of me,”
I objected once more. The cheroot was
alight now, and I kindled a cigarette to
combat in some degree the gunpowdery
fumes.

Teeth gleamed amiably through the
beard, and 2k)berg nodded again, in
frank delight this time. "Oh, we have
hopes of you. Wills, where we gave up
Houdini.”

He had never said that before, not so
plainly at any rate. I smiled back. "I’ve
always been willing to be shown. Give
me a fool-proof, fake-proof, supernormal
phenomenon. Doctor; let me convince
myself; then I’ll come gladly into the
spiritist camp.”

"Ach, so you always say!” he ex-
ploded, but without genuine wrath.
"Why must the burden of proof rest with
the spirits? How can you prove that they
do not live and move and act? Study
what Eddington has to say about that.”

"For five years,” I reminded him, "I

have offered a prize of five thousand dol-
lars to any medium whose spirit miracles
I could not duplicate by honest sleight-of-
hand.”

He gestured with slim fingers, as
though to push the words back into me.
"That proves absolutely nothing. Wills.
For all your skill, do you think that
sleight-of-hand can be the only way? Is
it even the best way?”

"I’ve unmasked famous mediums for
years, at the rate of one a month,” I
flung back. "Unmasked them as the
clumsiest of fakes.”

"Because some are dishonest, are all
dishonest?” he appealed. "What specific
thing would convince you, my friend?”

I thought for a moment, gazing at him
through the billows of smoke. Not a
gray hair to him — and I, twenty years his
junior, had six or eight at either temple.
I went on to admire and even to envy
that pointed trowel of beard, the sort of
thing that I, a magician, might have cul-
tivated once. ’Then I made my answer.

"I’d ask for a materialization. Doctor.
An ectoplasmic apparition, visible and
solid to touch — in an empty room with
no curtains or closets, all entrances sealed
by myself, the medium and witnesses
shackled.” He started to open his mouth,
but I hurried to prevent him. "I know
what you’ll say — that I’ve seen a number
of impressive ectoplasms. So I have, per-
haps, but not one was scientifically and
dispassionately controlled. No, Doctor, if
I’m to be convinced, I must make the
conditions and set the stage myself.”

"And if the materialization was a com-
plete success?”

"Then it would prove the claim to me
— to the world. Materializations are the
most important question in tlie whole
field.”

He looked long at me, narrowing his
shrewd eyes beneath the dark single bar
of his brows. "Wills,” he said at length.

WEIRD TALES

"I hoped you would ask something like
this.”

"You did.^”

"Ja. Because — first, can you spare a
day or so?”

I replied guardedly, "I can, I believe.
We have two weeks or more before the
New Orleans date.” I computed rapidly.
''Yes, that’s December 8. What have you
got up your sleeve. Doctor?”

He grinned once more, wdth a great
display of gleaming white teeth, and
flung out his long arms. "My sleeves,
you will observe, are empty!” he cried.
"No trickery. But within five hours of
where we sit — five hours by fast automo-
bile — is a little town. And in that town
there is a little medium. No, Wills, you
have never seen or heard of her. It is
only myself who found her by chance,
who studied her long and prayerfully.
Come with me. Wills — she v/ill teach
you how little you know and how much
you can learn!”

2. "Yon Can Almost Hear the Ghosts.”

1 HAVE sat down with the purpose of
writing out, plainly and even flatly, all
that happened to me and to Doctor Otto
Zoberg in our impromptu adventure at
psychic investigation; yet, almost at the
start, I find it necessary to be vague about
the tiny town where that adventure ran
its course. Zoberg began by refusing to
tell me its name, and now my friends of
various psychical research committees
have asked me to hold my peace until
they have finished certain examinations
without benefit of yellow journals or pry-
ing politicians.

It is located, as Zoberg told me, with-
in five miles by fast automobile of
Washington. On the following morning,
after a quick and early breakfast, we de-
parted at seven o’clock in my sturdy
coupe. I drove and Zoberg guided. In the

turtle-back we had stowed bags, for the
November sky had begun to boil up with
dark, heavy clouds, and a storm might
delay us.

On the way Zoberg talked a great deal,
with his usual charm and animation. He
scoflied at my skepticism and prophesied
my conversion before another midnight.

"A hundred years ago, realists like
yourself were ridiculing hypnotism,” he
chuckled. "They thought that it was a
fantastic fake, like one of Edgar Poe’s
amusing tales, ja? And now it is a great
science, for healing and comforting the
world. A few years ago, the world
scorned mental telepathy ”

"Hold on,” I interrupted. "I’m none
too convinced of it now.”

"I said just that, last night. However,
you think that there is some grain of
truth to it. You would be a fool to laugh
at the many experiments in clairvoyance
carried on at Duke University.”

"Yes, they are impressive,” I admitted.

"They are tremendous, and by no
means unique,” he insisted. "Think of a
number between one and ten,” he said
suddenly.

I gazed at my hands on the wheel,
thought of a joking reply, then fell in
with his mexjd.

"All right,” I replied. "I’m thinking
of a number. What is it?”

''It is seven,” he cried out at once, then
laughed heartily at the blank look on my
face.

''Look here, that’s a logical number for
an average man to think of,” I protested.
"You relied on human nature, not
telepathy.”

He grinned and tweaked the end of
his beard between manicured fingers.
"Very good. Wills, try again. A color
this time.”

I paused a moment before replying,
"All right, guess what it is.”

He, too, hesitated, staring at me side-

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

wise. "I think it is blue,” he offered at
length.

"Go to the head of the class,” I
grumbled. "I rather expected you to
guess red — that’s most obvious.”

"But I was not guessing,” he assured
me. "A flash of blue came before my
mind’s eye. Come, let us try another
time.”

We continued the experiment for a
while. Zoberg was not always correct, but
he was surprizingly close in nearly every
case. The most interesting results were
with tlie names of persons, and Zoberg
achieved some rather mystifying approx-
imations. Thus, when I was thinking of
the actor Boris Karloff, he gave me the
name of the actor Bela Lugosi. Upon my
thinking of Gilbert K. Chesterton, he
named Chesterton’s close friend Hilaire
Belloc, and my concentration on George
Bernard Shaw brought forth a shout of
"Santa Claus.” When I reiterated my
charge of psychological trickery and
besought him to teach me his method, he
grew actually angry and did not speak
for more than half an hour. Then he
began to discuss our destination.

"A most amazing community,” he pro-
nounced. "It is old — one of the oldest
inland towns of all America. Wait until
you see the houses, my friend. You can
almost hear the ghosts within them, in
broad daylight. And their Devil’s Croft,
that is worth seeing, too.”

"Their what?”

He shook his head, as though in
despair. "And j-ou set yourself up as an
authority on occultism!” he sniffed.
"Next you will admit that you have never
heard of the Druids. A Devil’s Croft, my
dull young friend, used to be part of
every English or Scots village. The good
people would set aside a field for Satan,
so that he would not take their own
lands.”

"And this settlement has such a
place?”

"Ja wohl, a grove of the thickest tim-
ber ever seen in this over-civilized coun-
try, and hedged in to boot. I do not say
that they believe, but it is civic property
and protected by special order from tres-
passers.”

"I’d like to visit that grove,” I said.
"I pray you!” he aied, waving in pro-
test. "Do not make us unwelcome.”

W E ARRIVED shortly before noon.

’The little town rests in a circular
hollow among high wooded hills, and
there is not a really good road into it,
for two or three miles around. After
listening to Zoberg, I had expected some-
thing grotesque or forbidding, but I was
disappointed. The houses were sturdy
and modest, in some cases poor. The
greater part of them made a close-hud-
dled mass, like a herd of cattle threat-
ened by wolves, with here and there an
isolated dwelling like an adventuresome
young fighting-bull. The streets were
narrow, crooked and unpaved, and for
once in this age I saw buggies and
wagons outnumbering automobiles. The
central square, with a two-story town
hall of red brick and a hideous cast-iron
war memorial, still boasted numerous
hitching-rails, brown with age and
smooth with use. There were few real
signs of modern progress. For instance,
the drug store was a shabby clapboard
affair with "Pharmacy” painted upon its
windows, and it sold only drugs, soda
and tobacco; while the one hotel was
low and rambling and bore the title
"Luther Inn.” I heard that the popula-
tion was three hundred and fifty, but I
am inclined to think it was closer to three
hundred.

We drew up in front of the Luther
Inn, and a group of roughly dressed men
gazed at us with the somewhat hostile

WEIRD TALES

interrogation that often marks a rural
American community at the approach of
strangers. These men wore mail-order
coats of corduroy or suede — the air was
growing nippier by the minute — and
plow shoes or high laced boots under
dungaree pants. All of them were of
Celtic or Anglo-Saxon type.

"Hello!” cried Zoberg jovially. "I see
you there, my friend Mr. Gird. How is
your charming daughter?”

The man addressed took a step for-
ward from the group on the porch. He
was a raw-boned, grizzled native with
pale, pouched eyes, and was a trifle bet-
ter dressed than the others, in a rather
ministerial coat of dark cloth and a wide
black hat. He cleared his throat before
replying.

"Hello, Doctor. Susan’s well, thanks.
What do you want of us?”

It was a definite challenge, that would
repel or anger most men, but Zoberg was
not to be denied. He scrambled out of
the car and cordially shook the hand of
the man he had called Mr. Gird. Mean-
while he spoke in friendly fashion to one
or two of the others.

"And here,” he wound up, "is a very
good friend of mine, Mr. Talbot Wills.”

All eyes — and very unfriendly eyes
they were, as a whole — turned upon me.
I got out slowly, and at Zoberg’s insist-
ence shook hands with Gird. Finally the
grizzled man came with us to the car.

"I promised you once,” he said glumly
to Zoberg, "that I would let you and
Susan dig as deeply as you wanted to into
this matter of spirits. I’ve often wished
since that I hadn’t, but my word was
never broken yet. Come along with me;
Susan is cooking dinner, and there’ll be
enough for all of us.”

He got into the car with us, and as we
drove out of the square and toward his
house he conversed quietly with Zoberg
and me.

"Yes,” he answered one of my ques-
tions, "the houses are old, as you can
see. Some of them have stood since the
Revolutionary War with England, and
our town’s ordinances have stood longer
than that. You aren’t tlie first to be im-
pressed, Mr. Wills. Ten years ago a cer-
tain millionaire came and said he wanted
to endow us, so that we would stay as we
are. He had a lot to say about native
color and historical value. We told him
that we would stay as we are without hav-
ing to take money from him, or from
anybody else for that matter.”

G ird's home was large but low, all
one story, and of darkly painted
clapboards over heavy timbers. The front
door was hung on the most massive hand-
wrought hinges. Gird knocked at it, and
a slender, smallish girl opened to us.

She wore a woolen dress, as dark as
her father’s coat, with white at the neck
and wrists. Her face, under masses of
thunder-black hair, looked Oriental at
first glance, what with high cheek-bones
and eyes set aslant; then I saw that her
eyes were a bright gray like worn silver,
and her skin rosy, with a firm chin and a
generous mouth. The features were rep-
resentatively Celtic, after all, and I won-
dered for perhaps the fiftieth time in my
life if there was some sort of blood link
between Scot and Mongol. Her hand, on
the brass knob of the door, showed as
slender and white as some evening
flower.

"Susan,” said Gird, "here’s Doctor Zo-
berg. And this is his friend, Mr.
Wills.”

She smiled at Zoberg, then nodded to
me, respectfully and rather shyly.

"My daughter,” Gird finished the in-
troduction. “Well, dinner must be
ready.”

She led us inside. 'The parlor was
rather plainer than in most old-fash-

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

ioned provincial houses, but it was com-
fortable enough. Much of its furniture
would have deliglited antique dealers,
and one or two pieces would have im-
pressed museum directors. The dining-
room beyond had plate-racks on the walls
and a long table of dark wood, with
high-backed chairs. We had some fried
ham, biscuits, coffee and stewed fruit that
must have been home-canned. Doctor
Zoberg and Gird ate heartily, talking of
local trifles, but Susan Gird hardly
touched her food. I, watching her with
stealthy admiration, forgot to take more
than a few mouthfub.

After the repast she carried out the
dishes and we men returned to the par-
lor. Gird faced us.

"You’re here for some more hocus-
pocus?” he hazarded gruffly.

"For another seance,” amended Zo-
berg, suave as ever.

"Doctor,” said Gird, "I think this had
better be the last time.”

Zoberg held out a hand in pleading
protest, but Gird thrust his own hands
behind him and looked sternly stubborn.
"It’s not good for the girl,” he an-
nounced definitely.

"But she is a great medium — greater
than Eusapia Paladino, or Daniel Home,”
Zoberg argued earnestly. "She is an im-
portant figure in the psychic world, lost
and wasted here in this backwater ”

"Please don’t miscall our town,” inter-
rupted Gird. "Well, Doctor, I agree to
a final seance, as you call it. But I’m
going to be present.”

Zoberg made a gesture as of refusal,
but I sided with Gird.

"If this is to be my test, I want an-
other witness,” I told Zoberg.

"Ach! If it is a success, you will say
that he helped to deceive.”

"Not I. I’ll arrange things so there
will be no deception.”

Both Zoberg and Gird stared at me.

I wondered which of tliem was the more
disdainful of my confidence.

Then Susan Gird joined us, and for
once I wanted to speak of other subjects
than the occult.

3. "That Thing Isn’t My Daughter "

I T WAS 2k)berg who suggested that I
take Susan Gird for a relaxing drive in
my car. I acclaimed the idea as a bril-
liant one, and she, thanking me quietly,
put on an archaic-seeming cloak, black
and heavy. We left her father and Zo-
berg talking idly and drove slowly
through the town.

She pointed out to me the Devil’s
Croft of which I had heard from the
doctor, and I saw it to be a grove of
trees, closely and almost rankly set. It
stood apart from the sparser timber on
the hills, and around it stretched bare
fields. Their emptiness suggested that all
the capacity for life had been drained
away and poured into that central clump.
No road led near to it, and I was oblig^
to content myself by idling the car at a
distance while we gazed and she talked.

"It’s evergreen, of course,” I said.
"Cedar and a little juniper.”

"Only in the hedge around it,” Susan
Gird informed me. "It was planted by
the town council about ten years ago.”

I stared. "But surely there’s greenness
in the center, too,” I argued.

"Perhaps. 'They say that the leaves
never fall, even in January.”

I gazed at what appeared to be a lit-
tle fluff of white mist above it, the whiter
by contrast with the blade clouds that
lowered around the hill-tops. To my
questions about the town council, Susan
Gird told me some rather curious things
about the government of the community.
There were five councilmen, elected every
year, and no mayor. Each of the five
presided at a meeting in turn. Among

WEIRD TALES

the ordinances enforced by the council
was one providing for support of the
single church.

“I should think that such an ordinance
could be set aside as illegal,” I observed.

"I think it could,” she agreed, "but
nobody has ever wished to try.”

The minister of the church, she con-
tinued, was invariably a member of the
council. No such provision appeared on
the town records, nor was it even urged
as a "written law,” but it had always been
deferred to. The single peace officer of
the town, she continued, was the duly
elected constable. He was always com-
missioned as deputy sheriff by officials
at the county seat, and his duties included
census taking, tax collecting and similar
matters. The only other officer with a
state commission was the justice; and her
father, John Gird, had held that post for
the last six years.

"He’s an attorney, then?” I suggested,
but Susan Gird shook her head.

'"The only attorney in this place is a
retired judge, Keith Pursuivant,” she in-
formed me. "He came from some other
part of the world, and he appears in
town about once a month — lives out
yonder past the Croft. As a matter of
fact, an ordinary experience of law isn’t
enough for our peculiar little govern-
ment.”

She spoke of her fellow-townsmen as
quiet, simple folk who were content for
the most part to keep to themselves, and
then, yielding to my earnest pleas, she
told me something of herself.

'The Gird family counted its descent
from an original settler — though she was
not exactly sure of when or how the
settlement was made — and had borne a
leading part in community affairs through
more tlian two centuries. Her mother, who
had died when Susan Gird was seven,
had been a stranger; an "outlander” was
the local term for such, and I think it

is used in Devonshire, which may throw
light on the original founders of the com-
munity. Apparently this woman had
shown some tendencies toward psychic
power, for she had several times prophe-
sied coming events or told neighbors
where to find lost things. She was well
loved for her labors in caring for the
sick, and indeed she had died from a
fever contracted when tending the victims
of an epidemic.

"Doctor Zoberg had known her,”
Susan Gird related. "He came here sev-
eral years after her death, and seemed
badly shaken when he heard what had
happened. He and Father became good
friends, and he has been kind to me, too.
I remember his saying, the first time we
met, that I looked like Mother and that
it was apparent that I had inherited her
spirit.”

She had grown up and spent three
years at a teachers’ college, but left be-
fore graduation, refusing a position at a
school so that she could keep house for
her lonely father. Still idiotically man-
nerless, I mentioned the possibility of
her marrying some young man of the
town. She laughed musically.

"Why, I stopped thinking of mar-
riage when I was fourteen!” she cried.
Then, "Look, it’s snowing.”

So it was, and I thought it time to
start for her home. We finished the
drive on the best of terms, and when we
reached her home in midaftemoon, we
were using first names.

G ird, I found, had capitulated to Doc-
tor Zoberg’s genial insistence.
From disliking the thought of a seance,
he had come to savor the prospea of wit-
nessing it — Zoberg had always excluded
him before. Gird had even picked up a
metaphysical term or two from listening
to the doctor, and with these he spiced
his normally plain speech.

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

iSl

"This ectoplasm stuff sounds reason-
able,” he admitted. "If there is any such
thing, there could be ghosts, couldn’t
there.^”

Zoberg twinkled, and tilted his beard-
spike forward. "You will find that Mr.
Wills does not believe in ectoplasm.”

"Nor do I believe that the production
of ectoplasm would prove existence of a
ghost,” I added. "What do you say.
Miss Susan?”

She smiled and shook her dark head.
"To tell you the truth, I’m aware only
dimly of what goes on during a stance.”

"Most mediums say that,” nodded Zo-
berg sagely.

As the sun set and the darkness came
down, we prepared for the experiment.

The dining-room was chosen, as the
barest and quietest room in the house.
First I made a thorough examination,
poking into comers, tapping walls and
handling furniture, to the accompani-
ment of jovial taunts from Zoberg.
Then, to his further amusement, I pro-
duced from my grip a big lump of seal-
ing-wax, and with this I sealed both
the kitchen and parlor doors, stamping
the wax with my signet ring. I also closed,
latched and sealed the windows, on the
sills of which little heaps of snow had
begun to collea.

"You’re kind of making sure, Mr.
Wills,” said Gird, lighting a patent car-
bide lamp.

"That’s because I take this business
seriously,” I replied, and Zoberg clapped
his hands in approval.

"Now,” I went on, "off with your
coats and vests, gentlemen.”

Gird and Zoberg complied, and stood
up in their shirt-sleeves. I searclied and
felt them both all over. Gird was a trifle
bleak in manner, Zoberg gay and bright-
faced. Neither had any concealed ap-
paratus, I made sure. My next move was
to set a chair against the parlor door.

seal its legs to the floor, and instmct
Gird to sit in it. He did so, and I pro-
duced a pair of handcuffs from my bag
and shackled his left wrist to the arm of
tlie chair.

"Capital!” cried Zoberg. "Do not be
so sour, Mr. Gird. I would not trust
handcuffs on Mr. Wills — he was once a
magician and knows all the escape
tricks.”

"Your turn’s coming. Doctor,” I as-
sured him.

Against the opposite wall and facing
Gird’s chair I set three more diairs, melt-
ing wax around their legs and stamping
it. Then I dragged all other furniture
far away, arranging it against the kitchen
door. Finally I asked Susan to take the
central diair of the three, seated Zoberg
at her left hand and myself at her right.
Beside me, on the floor, I set the carbide
lamp.

"With your permission,” I said, and
produced more manacles. First I fast-
ened Susan’s left ankle to Zoberg’s right,
then her left wrist to his right. Zoberg’s
left wrist I chained to his chair, leaving
him entirely helpless.

"What thick wrists you have!” I com-
mented. "I never knew they were so
sinewy.”

"You never chained them before,” he
grinned.

With two more pairs of handcuffs I
shackled my own left wrist and ankle to
Susan on tlie right.

"Now we are ready,” I pronounced.

"You’ve treated us like bank robbers,”
muttered Gird.

"No, no, do not blame Mr. Wills,”
Zoberg defended me again. He looked
anxiously at Susan. "Are you quite pre-
pared, my dear?”

Her eyes met his for a long moment;
then she closed them and nodded. I,
boimd to her, felt a relaxation of her en-

WEIRD TALES

tire body. After a moment she bowed
her chin upon her breast.

"Let nobody talk,” warned Zoberg
softly. "I think that this will be a suc-
cessful venture. Wills, the light.”

With my free hand I turned it out.

All was intensely dark for a moment.
Then, as my eyes adjusted themselves, the
room seemed to lighten. I could see the
deep gray rectangles of the windows, the
snow at their bottoms, the blurred out-
line of the man in his chair across the
floor from me, the form of Susan at my
left hand. My ears, likewise sharpening,
detected the girl’s gentle breathing, as
if she slept. Once or tv'ice her right
hand twitched, shaking my own arm in
its manacle. It was as though she sought
to attract my attention.

Before and a little beyond her, some-
thing pale and cloudy was making itself
visible. Even as I fixed my ga.ze upon it,
I heard something that sounded like a
gusty panting. It might have been a tired
dog or other beast, lire pallid mist was
changing shape and substance, too, and
growing darker. It shifted against the
dim light from the windows, and I had a
momentary impression of something
erect but misshapen — misshapen in an
animal way. Was that a head.? And were
those pointed ears, or part of a head-
dress? I told myself determinedly that
this was a clever illusion, successful de-
spite my precautions.

It moved, and I heard a rattle upon
the planks. Claw's, or perhaps hobnails.
Did not Gird wear heavy boots? Yet he
was surely sitting in his chair; I sav/
something shift position at that point.
The grotesque form had come before me,
crouching or creeping.

Despite my self-assurance that this was
a trick, I could not govern the chill that
swept over me. The thing had come to a
halt close to me, was lifting itself as a
hound that paws its master’s knees. I

was aware of an odor, strange and dis-
agreeable, like the wind from a great
beast’s cage. Then the paws were upon
my lap — indeed, they were not paws. I
felt them grip my legs, with fingers and
opposable thumbs. A sniffing muazle
thrust almost into my face, and upon its
black snout a dim, wet gleam was mani-
fest.

Then Gird, from his seat across the
room, screamed hoarsely.

"That thing isn’t my daughter ”

In the time it took him to rip out those
five words, the huddled monster at my
knees whirled back and away from me,
reared for a trice like a deformed giant,
and leaped across the intervening space
upon him. I saw that Gird had tried
to rise, his drained wrist hampering him.
Tlien his voice broke in the midst of
what he was trying to say; he made a
choking sound and the thing emitted a
barking growl.

Tearing loose from its wax fastenings,
the chair fell upon its side. There was a
stmggle and a clatter, and Gird squealed
like a rabbit in a trap. The attacker fell
away from him toward us.

It was all over before one might ask
what it was about.

4. "I Don’t Know What Killed Him.”

J UST when I got up I do not remember,
but I was on my feet as the grapplers
separated. Without thinking of danger —
and surely danger was there in the
room — I might have rushed forward; but
Susan Gird, lying limp in her chair,
hampered me in our mutual shackles.
Standing where I was, then, I pawed in
my pocket for something I had not men-
tioned to her or to Zoberg; an electric
torch.

It fitted itself into my hand, a compact
little q’linder, and I whipped it out with
my finger on the switch. A cone of white

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

light spurted across the room, making a
pool about and upon the motionless form
of Gird. He lay crumpled on one side,
his back toward us, and a smudge of
black wetness was widening about his
slack head and shoulders.

With the beam I swiftly quartered the
room, probing it into every corner and
shadowed nook. The creature that had
attacked Gird had utterly vanished. Susan
Gird now gave a soft moan, like a
dreamer of dreadful things. I flashed
my light her way.

It flooded her face and she quivered
under the impact of the glare, but did
not open her eyes. Beyond her I saw
Zoberg, doubled forward in his bonds.
He was staring blackly at the form of
Gird, his eyes protruding and his
clenched teeth showing through his
beard.

"Doctor Zoberg!” I shouted at him,
and his face jerked nervously toward
me. It was fairly cross-hatched with tense
lines, and as white as fresh pipe-clay. He
tried to say something, but his voice
would not command itself.

Dropping the torch upon the floor, I
next dug keys from my pocket and with
trembling haste unlocked the irons from
Susan Gird’s wrist and ankle on my side.
Then, stepping hurriedly to Zoberg, I
made him sit up and freed him as speed-
ily as possible. Finally I returned, found
my torch again and stepped across to
Gird.

My first glance at close quarters was
enough; he was stone-dead, with his
throat tom bmtally out. His cheeks, too,
were ripped in parallel gashes, as though
by the grasp of claws or nails. Radiance
suddenly glowed behind me, and Zoberg
moved forward, holding up the carbide
lamp.

"I found this beside your chair,” he
told me unsteadily. "I found a match
and lighted it.” He looked down at

Gird, and his lips twitched, as though he
would be hysterical.

"Steady, Doctor,” I cautioned him
sharply, and took the lamp from him.
"See what you can do for Gird.”

He stooped slowly, as though he had
grown old. I stepped to one side, putting
the lamp on the table. Zoberg spoke
again:

"It is absolutely no use. Wills. We
can do nothing. Gird has been killed.”

I had turned my attention to the girl.
She still sagged in her chair, breathing
deeply and rhythmically as if in un-
troubled slumber.

"Susan,” I called her. "Susan!”

She did not stir, and Dextor Zoberg
came back to where I bent above her.
"Susan,” he whispered penetratingly,
"wake up, child.”

Her eyes unveiled themselves slowly,

and looked up at us. "What ” she

began drowsily.

"Prepare yourself,” I cautioned her
quickly. "Something has happened to
your father.”

She stared across at Gird’s body, and
then she screamed, tremulously and long.
Zoberg caught her in his arms, and she
swayed and shuddered against their sup-
porting circle. From her own wrists my
irons still dangled, and they clanked as
she wrung her hands in aimless distrac-
tion.

Going to the dead man once more, I
unchained him from the chair and turned
him upon his back. Susan’s black cloak
lay upon one of the other cliairs, and I
picked it up and spread it above him.
Then I went to each door in turn, and to
the windows.

"The seals are unbroken,” I reported.
"’There isn’t a space through w'hich even
a mouse could slip in or out. Yet ”

"I did it!” wailed Susan suddenly.
"Oh, my God, what dreadful thing came
out of me to murder my father!”

WEIRD TALES

I UNFASTENED the parlor door and
opened it. Almost at the same time a
loud knock sounded from the front of
the house.

Zoberg lifted his head, nodding to me
across Susan’s trembling shoulder. His
arms were still clasped around her, and
I could not help but notice that they
seemed thin and ineffectual now. When
I had chained them, I had wondered at
their steely cording. Had this awful
calamity drained him of strength.^

"Go,” he said hoarsely. "See w'ho it
is.”

I went. Opening the front door, I
came face to face with a tall, angular
silhouette in a slouch hat w'ith snow on
the brim.

"Who are you?” I jerked out, startled.
"O' Bryant,” boomed back an organ-
deep bass. "What’s the fuss here?”

"Well ” I began, then hesitated.

"Stranger in town, ain’t you?” was the
next question. "I saw you when you
stopped at the Lutlier Inn. I’m O’Bryant
— the constable.”

He strode across the door-sill, peered
about him in the dark, and then slouched
into the lighted dining-room. Following,
I made him out as a stern, roughly
dressed man of forty or so, with a lean
face made strong by a salient chin and a
simitar nose. His light blue eyes studied
the still form of John Gird, and he
stooped to draw away the cloak. Susan
gave another agoni2ed cry, and I heard
Zoberg gasp as if deeply shodeed. 'The
constable, too, flindied and replaced the
cloak more quickly than he had taken it
up.

"Who done that?” he barked at me.
Again I found it hard to answer.
Constable O’Bryant sniffed suspiciously
at each of us in turn, took up the lamp
and herded us into the parlor. 'There he
made us take seats.

"I want to know everything about this

business,” he said harshly. "You," he
flung at me, "you seem to be the closest
to sensible. Give me the story, and don’t
leave out a single bit of it.”

Thus commanded, I made shift to
describe the seance and what had led up
to it. I was as uneasy as most innocent
people are when unexpectedly questioned
by peace ofiicers. O’Bryant interrupted
twice with a guttural "Huh!” and once
with a credulous whistle.

“And this killing happened in the
dark?” he asked when I had finished.
"Well, which of you dressed up like a
devil and done it?”

Susan whimpered and bowed her head.
Zoberg, outraged, sprang to his feet.

"It was a creature from another
world,” he protested angrily. "None of
us had a reason to kill Mr. Gird.”

O’Bryant emitted a sharp, equine
laugh. "Don’t go to tell me any ghost
stories, Doaor Zoberg. We follb have
heard a lot about the hocus-pocus you’ve
pulled off here from time to time. Looks
like it might have been to cover up some
kind of rough stuff.”

"How could it be?” demanded Zoberg.
"Look here, Constable, these handcuffs.”
He held out one pair of them. "We were
all confined with them, fastened to chairs
that were sealed to the floor. Mr. Gird
was also chained, and his chair made fast
out of our reach. Go into the next room
and look for yourself.”

"Let me see them irons,” grunted
O’Brj’ant, snatching them.

He turned them over and over in his
hands, snapped them shut, tugged and
pressed, then held out a hand for my
keys. Unlocking the cuffs, he peered into
the clamping mechanism.

"These are regulation bracelets,” he
pronounced. "You were all chained up,
then?”

"We were,” replied Zoberg, and both
Susan and I nodded.

W.T.— 4

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

Into the constable’s blue eyes came a
sudden shrewd light. "I guess you must
have been, at that. But did you stay that
way?” He whipped suddenly around,
bending above my cliair to fix his gaze
upon me. ‘'How about you, Mr. Wills?”

"Of course we stayed that way,” I
replied.

"Yeh? Look here, ain’t you a profes-
sional magician?”

"How did you know that?” I asked.

He grinned widely and without
warmtli. "The whole town’s been talk-
ing about you, Mr. Wills. A stranger
can’t be here all day without his whole
record coming out.” The grin vanished.
"You’re a magician, all right, and you
can get out of handcuffs. Ain’t that so?”

"Of course it’s so,” Zoberg answered
for me. "But why should that mean that
my friend has killed Mr. Gird?”

O’Bryant wagged his head in triumph.
"That’s what we’ll find out later. Right
now it adds up very simple. Gird was
killed, in a room that w'as all sealed up.
Three other folks was in with him, all
handcuffed to their chairs. Whicli of
them got loose without the others catcli-
ing on?” He nodded brightly at me, as
if in answer to his own question.

Zoberg gave me a brief, penetrating
glance, then seemed to shrivel up in his
own chair. He looked almost as ex-
hausted as Susan. I, too, was feeling near
to collapse.

"You want to own up, Mr. Wills?”
invited O’Bryant.

"I certainly do not,” I snapped at him.
"You’ve got the wrong man.”

"I thought,” he made answer, as
though catching me in a damaging ad-
mission, "that it was a devil, not a man,
who killed Gird.”

I shook my head. "I don’t know what
killed him.”

"Maybe you’ll remember after a
while.” He turned toward the door.

W. T.— S

"You come along with me. I’m going
to lock you up.”

I rose with a sigh of resignation, but
paused for a moment to address Zoberg.
"Get hold of yourself,” I urged him.
"Get somebody in here to look after
Miss Susan, and tlien clarify in your
mind what happened. You can help me
prove that it wasn’t I.”

Zoberg nodded very wearily, but did
not look up.

"Don’t neither of you go into that
room where the body is,” O’Bryant
warned them. "Mr. Wills, get your coat
and hat.”

1 did so, and we left the house. The
snow was indies deep and still falling.
O’ Bryant led me across the street and
knocked on the door of a peak-roofed
house. A swarthy little man opened to
us.

"There’s been a murder, Jim,” said
O’Bryant importantly. "Over at Gird’s.
You’re deputized — go and keep watch.
Better take the missus along, to look
after Susan. She’s bad cut up about it.”

We left the new deputy in charge and
walked down the street, then turned into
the square. Two or three men standing
in front of the "Pharmacy” stared curi-
ously, then whispered as we passed. An-
other figure paused to give me a search-
ing glance. I was not too stunned to be
irritated.

"Who are those?” I asked the con-
stable.

"Town fellows,” he informed me.
"They’re mighty interested to see what a
killer looks like.”

"How do they know about the case?”
I almost groaned.

He achieved his short, hard laugh.

"Didn’t I say that news travels fast in
a town like this? Half the folks are talk-
ing about the killing this minute.”

"You’ll find you made a mistake,” I
assured him.

WEIRD TALES

"If I have, I’ll beg your pardon hand-
some. Meanwhile, I’ll do my duty.’’

We were at the red brick town hall
by now. At O’Bryant’s side I mounted
the granite steps and waited while he
unlocked the big double door with a key
the size of a can-opener.

"We’re a kind of small town,” he ob-
served, half apologetically, "but there’s
a cell upstairs for you. Take off your hat
and overcoat — ^you’re staying inside till
further notice.”

3. "They Want to Take the Law into
Their Own Hands"

T he cell was an upper room of the
town hall, with a heavy wooden
door and a single tiny window. The walls
were of bare, unplastered brick, the floor
of concrete and the ceiling of white-
washed planks. An oil lamp burned in
a bracket. 'The only furniture was an
iron bunk hinged to the wall just below
the window, a wire-bound straight diair
and an unpainted table. On top of this
last stood a bowl and pitcher, with play-
ing-cards scattered around them.

G)nstable O’Bryant locked me in and
peered through a small grating in the
door. He was all nose and eyes and wide
lips, like a sardonic Punchinello.

"Look here,” I addressed him sud-
denly, for the first time controlling my
frayed nerves; "I want a lawyer.”

'"There ain’t no lawyer in town,” he
boomed sourly.

"Isn’t there a Judge Pursuivant in the
neighborhood?” I asked, remembering
something that Susan had told me.

"He don’t practise law,” O’Bryant
grumbled, and his beaked face slid out
of sight.

I turned to the table, idly gathered up
the cards into a pack and shuffled them.
To steady my still shaky fingers, I pro-
duced a few simple sleight-of-hand ef-

fects, palming of aces, making a king
rise to the top, and springing the pack
accordion-wise from one hand to the
other.

"I’d sure hate to play poker with you,”
volunteered O’Bryant, who had come
again to gaze at me.

I crossed to the grating and looked
through at him. "You’ve got the wrong
man,” I said once more. "Even if I were
guilty, you couldn’t keep me from talking
to a lawyer.”

"Well, I’m doing it, ain’t I?” he
taunted me. "You wait until tomorrow
and we’ll go to the county seat. The
sheriff can do whatever he wants to about
a lawyer for you.”

He ceased talking and listened. I
heard the sound, too — a hoarse, dull
murmur as of coal in a chute, or a dis-
tant, lowing herd of troubled cattle.

"What’s that?” I asked him.

O’Bryant, better able to hear in the
corridor, cocked his lean head for a mo-
ment. 'Then he cleared his throat.
"Sounds like a lot of people talking, out in
the square,” he replied. "I wonder ”

He broke off quickly and walked away.
’The murmur was growing. I, pressing
close to the grating to follow the con-
stable with my eyes, saw that his shoul-
ders were squared and his hanging fists
doubled, as though he were sudcfenly
aware of a lurking danger.

He reached the head of the stairs and
dumped down, out of my sight. I turned
back to the cell, walked to the bunk and,
stepping upon it, raised the window. To
the outside of the wooden frame two
fiat straps of iron had been securely
bolted to act as bars. To these I clung as
I peered out.

I was looking from the rear of the hall
toward the center of the square, with
the war memorial and the far line of
shops and houses seen dimly through a
thick curtain of falling snow. Something

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

dark moved doser to the wall beneath,
and I heard a cry, as if. of menace.

“I see his head in the window!”
bawled a voice, and more cries greeted
this statement. A moment later a heavy
missile hit the wall dose to the frame.

I dropped back from the window and
went once more to the grating of the
door. Through it I saw O’ Bryant coming
back, accompanied by several men. They
came close and peered through at me.

"Let me out,” I urged. "That’s a mob
out there.”

O’Bryant nodded dolefully, "Nothing
like this ever happened here before,” he
said, as if he were responsible for the
town’s whole history of violence. '"They
act like they want to take the law into
their own hands.”

A short, fat man spoke at his elbow.
"We’re members of the town council,
Mr. Wills. We heard that some of the
citizens were getting ugly. We came here
to look after you. We promise full pro-
tection.”

"Amen,” intoned a thinner specimen,
whom I guessed to be the preacher.

"There are only half a dozen of you,”
I pointed out. "Is that enough to guard
me from a violent mob.^”

As if to lend significance to my ques-
tion, from below and in front of the
building came a great shout, compounded
of many voices. Then a loud pounding
echoed through the corridor, like a
bludgeon on stout panels.

"You locked the door. Constable?”
asked the short man.

"Sure I did,” nodded O’Bryant.

A perfect rain of buffets sounded from
below, then a heavy impact upon the
front door of the hall. I could hear the
hinges creak.

"They’re trj'ing to break the door
down,” whispered one of the council.

'The short man turned resolutely on his
heel. "There’s a window at the landing

of the stairs,” he said. "Let’s go and
try to talk to them from that.”

The whole party followed him away,
and I could hear their feet on the stairs,
then tlie lifting of a heavy window-sash.
A loud and prolonged yelling came to
my ears, as if the gathering outside had
sighted and recognized a line of heads
on the sill above them.

"Fellow citizens!” called the stout
man’s voice, but before he could go on a
chorus of cries and hoots drowned him
out. I could hear more thumps and surg-
ing shoves at the creaking door.

Escape I must. I whipped around and
fairly ran to the bunk, mounting it a sec-
ond time for a peep from my window.
Nobody was visible below; apparently
those I had seen previously had run to
the front of the hall, there to hear the
bellowings of the officials and take a
hand in forcing the door.

Once again I dropped to the floor and
began to tug at the fastenings of the
bunk. It was an open oblong of metal, a
stout frame of rods strung with springy
wire netting. It could be folded upward
against the wall and held with a catch, or
dropped down with two lengths of chain
to keep it horizontal. I dragged the mat-
tress and blankets from it, then began a
close examination of the chains. They
were stoutly made, but the screw-plates
that held them to the brick wall might
be loosened. Clutching one chain with
both my hands, I tugged with all my
might, a foot braced against the wall.
A straining heave, and it came loose.

At the same moment an explosion
echoed through the corridor at my back,
and more shouts rang through the air.
Either O’Bryant or the mob had begun to
shoot. Then a rending crash shook the
building, and I heard one of the council-
men shouting; "Another like that and
the door will be down!”

His words inspired additional speed

VfTIRD TALES

within me. I took the loose end of the
chain in my hand. Its links were of
twisted iron, and the final one had been
sawed through to admit the loop of the
saew-plate, then clamped tight again.
But my frantic tugging had widened this
narrow cut once more, and quickly I
freed it from the dangling plate. Then,
folding the bunk against the wall, I drew
the chain upward. It would just reach to
the window — that open link would hook
around one of the flat bars.

T he noise of breakage rang louder in
the front of the building. Once
more I heard the voice of the short coun-
cilman: "I command you all to go home,
before Constable O’Bryant fires on you
again!”

"We got guns, too!” came back a de-
fiant shriek, and in proof of this state-
ment came a rattle of shots. I heard an
agonized moan, and the voice of the
minister: "Are you hit?”

"In the shoulder,” was O’Bryant’s
deep, savage reply.

My chain fast to the bar, I pulled
back and down on the edge of the bunk.
It gave some leverage, but not enough —
the bat was fastened too solidly. Desper-
ate, I clambered upon the iron frame-
work. Gaining the sill, I moved sidewise,
then turned and braced my back against
the wall. With my feet against the edge
of the bunk, I thrust it away with all the
strength in both my legs. A creak and a
ripping sound, and the bar pulled slowly
out from its bolts.

But a roar and thunder of feet told me
that the throng outside had gained en-
trance to the hall at last.

I heard a last futile flurry of protesting
cries from the councilmen as the steps
echoed with the charge of many heavy
boots. I waited no longer, but swung
myself to the sill and wriggled through
the narrow space where the bar had come

out. A lapel of my jacket tore against
the frame, but I made it. Clinging by the
other bar, I made out at my side a nar-
row band of perpendicular darkness
against the wall, and clutched at it. It
was a tin drainpipe, by the feel of it.

An attack was being made upon the
door of the cell. The wood splintered
before a torrent of blows, and I heard
people pushing in.

"He’s gone!” yelled a rough voice,
and, a moment later: "Hey, look at the
window!”

I had hold of the drainpipe, and gave
it my entire weight. Next instant it had
tom loose from its flimsy supports and
bent sickeningly outward. Yet it did not
let me down at once, acting rather as a
slender sapling to the top of which an
adventuresome boy has sprung. Still hold-
ing to it, I fell sprawling in the snow
twenty feet beneath the window I had
quitted. Somebody shouted from above
and a gun spoke.

"Get him!” screamed many voices.
"Get him, you down below!”

But I was up and nmning for my life.
The snow-filled square seemed to whip
away beneath my feet. Dodging around
the war memorial, I came face to face
with somebody in a bearskin coat. He
shouted for me to halt, in the reedy voice
of an ungrown lad, and the fierce-set
face that shoved at me had surely never
felt a razor. But I, who dared not be
merciful even to so untried an enemy,
stmck with both fists even as I hurtled
against him. He whimpered and dropped,
and I, springing over his falling body,
dashed on.

A wind was rising, and it bore to me
the howls of my pursuers from the direc-
tion of the hall. Two or three more guns
went off, and one bullet whickered over
my head. By then I had reached the far
side of the square, hurried across the

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

stieet and up an alley. The snow, still
falling densely, served to baffle the men
who ran shouting in my wake. Too,
nearly everyone who had been on the
streets had gone to the front of the hall,
and except for the boy at the memorial
none offered to turn me back.

I came out upon a street beyond the
square, quiet and ill-lit. Along this way,
I remembered, I could approach the Gird
home, where my automobile was parked.
Once at the wheel, I could drive to the
county seat and demand protection from
the sheriff. But, as I came cautiously near
the place and could see through the bliz-
zard the outline of the car, I heard loud
voices. A part of the mob had divined
my intent and had branched off to meet
me.

I ran down a side street, but they had
seen me. "There he is!” they shrieked
at one another. "Plug him!” Bullets
struck the wall of a house as I fled past
it, and the owner, springing to the door
with an angry protest, joined the chase
a moment later.

I WAS panting and staggering by now,
and so were most of my pursuers.
Only three or four, lean young athletes,
were gaining and coming even close to
my heels. With wretched determination
I maintained my pace, winning free of
the close-set houses of the town, wrig-
gling between the rails of a fence and
striking off through the drifting snow of
a field.

"Hey, he’s heading for the Croft!”
someone was wheezing, not far behind.

"Let him go in,” growled another run-
ner. "He'll wish he hadn’t.”

Yet again someone fired, and yet again
tiie bullet went wide of me; moving
swiftly, and half veiled by tiie dark and
the wind-tossed snowfall, I was a bad
tSirget that night. And, lifting my head,
I saw indeed the dense timber of the

Devil’s Croft, its tops seeming to toss
and fall like the blade waves of a high-
pent sea.

It was an inspiration, helped by the
shouts of the mob. Nobody went into
that grove — avoidance of it had become
a community habit, almost a community
instinct. Even if my enemies paused only
temporarily I could shelter well among
the trunks, catch my breath, perhaps hide
indefinitely. And surely Zoberg would
be recovered, would back up my protest
of innocence. With two words for it,
the fantasy would not seem so ridiculous.
All this I sorted over in my mind as I
ran toward the Devil’s Croft.

Another rail fence rose in my way. I
feared for a moment that it would baffle
me, so fast and far had I run and so
greatly drained away was my strength.
Yet I scrambled over somehow, slipped
and fell beyond, got up and ran crooked-
ly on. The trees were close now. Closer.
Within a dozen yards. Behind me I
heard oaths and warning exclamations.
The pursuit was ceasing at last.

I found myself against close-set ever-
greens; that would be the hedge of which
Susan Gird had told me. Pushing
between and through the interlaced
branches, I hurried on for five or six
steps, cannoned from a big tree-trunk,
went sprawling, lifted myself for another
brief run and then, with my legs like
strips of paper, dropped once more. I
crept forward on hands and knees. Final-
ly I collapsed upon my face. 'The wei^t
of all I had endured — the seance, the
horrible death of John Gird, my arrest,
my breaking from the cell and my wild
run for life — overwhelmed me as I lay.

Thus I must lie, I told myself hazily,
until they came and caught me. I heard,
or fancied I heard, movement near by,
then a trilling whistle. A signal.? It
sounded like the song of a little frog.

WEIRD TALES

Odd thought in this blizzard. I was
thinking foolishly of frogs, while I
sprawled face dow'n in the snow;. . , .

But where was the snow?

There was damp underneath, but it
was warm damp, like that of a riverside
in July. In my nostrils was a smell of
green life, the smell of parks and hot-
houses. My fists dosed upon something.

Two handfuls of soft, crisp moss!

I rose to my elbows. A white flower
bobbed and swayed before my nose,
shedding perfume upon me.

Far away, as though in another world,
I heard the rising of the wind that was
beating the snow into great drifts — but
that w'as outside the Devil’s Croft.

Iq the fasdnating next instaiUnent of this story. Talbot
Wills comes face to face io mortal combat with the
frightful terror of the Devil’s Croft. Reserve your copy
at your magarine dealer’s now.

«s/0

oean Matjan

By VENNETTE HERRON

It happened in java, that strange, weird, incredible thing that the natives
jully believe but the white man refuses to credit —
the story of a tiger and a woman

AT A DINNER given by the British
consul in Batavia I first met the
Lady Violette Adair; but one way
or another we met rather often after that
and became friends, until finally she
asked me to visit her. 'The house which
she had had built out there — one in
which to hide herself away for months
on end alone with her writing and paint-
ing — was a quaint affair of mixed billiek
and stucco; an enormous round studio,
with its upper wall a ring of skylight
windows under the eaves, hung with
thick mustard-gold and mauve curtains,
which could be drawn to shut out either
sun or moon when dc-sired, and no win-
dows below; with a half-circle of small
rooms, like monks’ cells, at the back —
and entered by a door stolen from a
temple in Bali. The door was of intri-
cately carven teak, covered with an in-

credible detail of tiny symbolic figures,
at which many Europeans would prob-
ably have sniggered or blushed, but
which made a perfect frame for the
strangely blond and mask-like, more
Scandanavian than British beauty of the
Lady Violette. And the threshold of the
door was a solid block of hand-hewn
wood nearly a foot square, forming the
central and topmost step of a little bridge
of stairs, which led up to and then down
into the studio, the floor of which was
sunken a couple of feet below the level
of the ground outside. A fascinating
house, with a personality as exotic as
that of its mistress, which is saying a
great deal. And in it also there was the
white cat.

"What a gorgeous animal, Violette!'*
For we had become fast friends befotei
ever she invited me there.

TOEAN MATJAN

"Two creatures oi another world they
seemed, one no more royal than
the other."

"Yes, isn’t it?”

But still she did not tell me its story —
not until several weeks later indeed, only
a few evenings before I was to leave.
Then, however, she did. Not that I
asked it of her even then, much as I
would have liked to, but it was one of
those portentous happenings which one
simply has to relate to someone, some-
time. And the hour was ripe, and I was
there; wherefore, thanks be to Allah, I
heard it. We were sitting side by side
upon the threshold of the temple door,
just at twilight, smoking lazily and
watching the sunset behind the distant

Tangomann Prahoe, sensing the exquisite
melancholy of the rose-gray dusk, of the
long lines of black-winged flying-foxes
flapping westward into infinity; out of
one cave, then into another, with a flash
across space between — symbol of sad yet
seaching little egos bom to die, while life
itself goes on for ever.

"What would you think,” propounded
Lady Violette suddenly, "if you saw a
tiger pass across the lawn right now? I
did, one night — a little later than this,
just after the moon had risen. I was sit-
ting here alone just as we are now when
all at once I heard a piteous bleat from

72 -

weird TALES

the goat-pern, and a great clamor of
frightened fowls. And then I saw the tiger,
with a kid in its mouth. He was padding
along rather slowly, not even looking at
the house, as though knowing that noth-
ing w'ould harm him, and content with
his kill, enjoying the night.”

"Weren’t you frightened? What did
you do, Violette?”

"I dashed inside, and came back with
the short, double-barreled shotgun which
I always keep loaded for jungle emer-
gencies; and he was still in sight — right
over there by those trees.” She pointed.
"But just as I raised the gun to my
shoulder, suddenly he stopped stock-still
and lodked at me. And — I never saw
anything quite so magnificent! Tawny-
striped, enormous, royal — 'fearful sym-
metry’ indeed! With great golden-green
moon-eyes, wise, flaming, wild and sad.
With blood dripping from his jowls —
with in every line of him that marvelous
feline pride w'hkh makes a few creatures
appear above all pettiness, above all little
common things, no matter what they may
do. And without trying to escape, it just
stood there staring. I don’t know what
it saw in vie, but \ saw beauty incarnate,
and some awful unnamable cosmic trag-
edy. It w'as speaking with its soul — in
words, just as you and I speak; and suf-
fering as no human being can suffer be-
cause in w'ords it could not speak. The
natives believe, you know, that the souls
of their great hero ancestors and likewise
those of some of the lesser gods are
locked up in tiger bodies. They will
never kill one of the beasts themselves,
if /they can help it; and if they meet one
in the jungle, instead they kneel and
pray to it. And they’ll all swear that,
if one does that, the tiger will pass on
without harming anyone.”

"But what did you do?” I asked my
hostess, intensely curious to know, and

tliinking to myself that the tiger might
well have seen in her — in her mystic gold-
en egg-shell fairness, in the fey blue eyes
beneath the thread-thin dark arcs which
were her brows, in the mask-like oval of
her face — very much what she’d seen in
it. Both were greater even than their
super-finished shells. And both were part
of a pitiful personal transciency, terribly
and rebelliously aware of all around and
just outside of themselves a mocking,
jibing, ruthlessly ruminating, living eter-
nity — Garoeda or the Sphinx — knowing
it there; yet never quite able to break into
and become a part of it.

"I?” replied tlie Lady Violette Adair.
"What could I do after that? I lowered
my gun and salaamed to him. 'Toean
matjan besar — great Lord Tiger,’ I said,
*go home in peace. You are too beauti-
ful to kill. But don’t steal any more of
my live-stock, please’.”

"And then?”

"Then he did a strange thing. He
opened his mouth and let the dead kid
fall onto the grass; his lips curled in a
tiger-smile, showing off his great white
fangs, and he gave a little low rumbling
roar. Then he was gone, like a streak of
bright light — not daylight, but light of
enchantment — burning its way beneath
the trees, leaving behind him a ripple and
swish of dew-drenched foliage, like a
phosphorescent wake, for a second; then
nothingness — a kind of soundless blank,
which had not been there before he
passed.”

"And did you ever see him again?”

H er face was dreaming, inscrutable,
with its lips slightly parted and
queerly quirked at the comers, like the
mask of a serhnpe — one of the Javanese
dancers of the Soesoehoenan’s court,
"Tliat very same night once again I heard
him. After I’d gone to bed, suddenly|

TOEAN MATJAN

upon die roof above my room diere came
a soft heavy thud and the grate of a
slithering tile. Then a long soft, savagely
tender purring, whicli went on and on.”

"And still you weren't afraid.?”

The Lady Violette smiled. "I fell
asleep listening to it,” she said, "and
knew that I was protected.”

"And is that the end of the story.?”

She shook her head. "Oh no — only
the beginning. The next morning Ati —
my head-boy, as you know — brought me
the kid, with his face gone almost white
with excitement. 'Look, nonjal’ he said.
'It was killed by a tiger — there are marks
of its teeth on the body, and also its foot-
prints, gigantic ones, in the dust of the
compound. Something out of the or-
dinary indeed must have happened to
cause it to drop its prey; but probably it
will return. What does the nonja want
us to do? Shall we set a trap for it? For
if it has once killed ’

"But I hastened to reassure him.
'Don’t worry, Ati. I talked to the tiger
myself, even as your old men and
doekoens talk, knowing the truth, even I,
in so much of their knowledge and ways.
And the tiger answered me. It said tliat
it would attack nothing here again, that
no one belonging to me need be afraid;
and of its own accord it left the kid to
show that it would keep its word.’ ”

"And the boy believed you?”

"Of course.” My hostess shrugged, a
trifle impatiently.

"And did it ever come back after
that?”

The Lady Violette hesitated, then went
on: "The natives believe also, you know,
that the tiger can change its shape at will
— like the werewolf — like all of the ani-
mals which are half-gods. Be that as it
may, several days after that first appear-
ance, as I was sitting at breakfast one
morning in the studio, I looked up and
beheld in the doorway, backed by a sheet

of gold sun, an enormous white cat.”

I started. "Matjan KetjU?”

She nodded. "The same. 'Thorou^i-
bred and dainty, with a great plume of a
tail — like som.ething out of fairyland.
And its eyes — have you noticed them? In
miniature they are twin replicas of those
of the tiger. Without scruple, yet so fas-
tidious, so aloof. And flooding in all
around him was the scent of sun-bruised
marigolds.”

"I know.” As indeed I did — that pe-
culiar pungence which seemed to contain
in it the very essence of Java mornings.
"And then?”

"I held out my hand and called to
it — in high Malay, suited to its rank.
'Enter, cat; dost want to be friends? Wel-
come to my house.’ Then I told Ati to
fetch a saucer of cream and offer it to
him; but when the boy approached, the
animal arched its back and spat. Then I
ordered Ati to set the cream upon the
table opposite me and to draw up a chair
as though for a guest; and I myself
salaamed to the cat and again held out
my hand. 'Wilt do me the honor of shar-
ing my meal, Matjan KetjH — little tiger?’
I invited. And at tliat my visitor walked
over, with the tip of its coral tongue and
the grace of a courtier kissed my fingers,
then sprang onto the diair and with a
comically polite little mew commenced to
lap up the cream.

"And after breakfast,” continued my
friend, "it followed me all about the
studio, until finally I placed a big velvet
pillow for it beside my work-cliair and
sat down at my writing-table. Then
Matjafi Ketjil — for of course already that
was his name — arranged himself upon
the cushion and remained there, unblink-
ing, unstirring, sometimes purring, some-
times seeming to sleep, occasionally look-
ing up at me. And then ”

"Well?”

WEIRD TALES

[Z4

"My dear, I scarcely know how to tell
you — it was the queerest thing! Of course
everything in the East speaks to me; but
between us two there was pure communi-
cation. I was not conscious of hearing
sentences — of an audible voice at all;
but simply all kinds of fantastic ideas be-
yond any that I had ever known flowed
in and out of me — and I understood the
East and the cosmos as never before, and
wrote as I had never thought to write.
And I felt strangely young and well, too.
It was fascinating and exhilarating, a
kind of enchantment. I wrote on and
on. Some day very likely you will read
some of it; but much of it will never be
published until after I am dead. And
since then the cat comes every day, as
you yourself have seen. And toward dusk,
as you will have noted too, he leaves and
goes into the jungle.”

I looked at my friend. Her eyes were
shining stars, her lashes were infinites-
imal glittering bronze-gold wires curving
up to meet her brows; her mouth was a
scarlet hibiscus blooming against a pale
bamboo wall. Many men had paused to
look at her; but it was often said that,
except for the impersonal courtesy and
consideration whidi was a part of her
breeding, she never looked back at them;
but confined her gaze instead to statues
and shrines, to masks and animals, to oc-
cult lore, to the things which gave to the
innermost core of her a thrill and to
nothing else. Very ancient was the ego
of the Lady Violette, although her so
strangely perfect body was still so young.
"Your cat is a magic creature — even
without knowing what you’ve just re-
counted, and even though he will never
let me stroke him,” I said.

"He’ll never let anyone touch him but
me,” Violette answered. "But likewise
he will never harm you.” 'Then she added
slowly: "And neither would the tiger.
Should you ever chance to see him, al-

though I doubt if you will — ^but should
you, you need not be afraid.”

"You mean that the tiger too still
sometimes returns?” I was not precisely
afraid; but I peered across at the com-
pound, from out of which seeped every
now and again the comforting night
sounds of sleepy goats and fowls, the
stamp of Violette’s riding-horse, or the
whining wail of a Malay love-song —
peered with the sort of horrified unable-
not-to feeling with which one regards a
mangling accident in a street.

"Sometimes he purrs on my roof at
night — ^he’s not apt to while you’re here;
but should you ever hear him, be calm —
you have nothing to fear.”

"You are a strange woman, Violette!
But thank you for telling me.”

"'That’s not quite all, either,” she said.
"And the rest may sound to you pretty
terrible. But stark beauty is that, isn’t
it? Do you want to hear it?”

"Of course,” I responded, wondering
what could be more, if there were any
inner truth in it at all, than what she’d
already told me.

"Did you ever know Haviland Nesbit?
He was rather the rage in London at
one time. Just after — ^yes, that one. 'Then
you know how handsome he was. But
perhaps you don’t know that he came out
here last year — just wandering, as he so
often did — and himted me up, with a
letter from my aunt. Lady Leila Car-
ruthers. Yes, I thought you must have.

Well ” She paused, then went on

musingly: "Men as a rule do not attract
me — I suppose you know that too; but
more than any other Haviland Nesbit
did. There was something about him
which made me feel more — more as I
suppose most other women feel; and I’ve
never cared a damn for conventions, of
course — so I asked him to stop awhile up
here. And he did. But still we were

TOEAN MATJAN

only friends — although he would have
liked, of course ’’

"And was that after the episode of tlie
tiger — and the white cat?” I interrupted,
too interested to consider whether or not
I was being rude.

My hostess laughed. "Of course! I
forgot that you couldn’t just loiow,” she
said — kindly, but as though tliere were a
way in which I might have known with-
out asking. "But after the first day of his
visit, Matjan Ketjil walked out, and did
not return until after Haviland was — was
gone." For an instant her face was in-
human in its cold, clear, dreaming
beauty.

"Yes?” I ventured, to egg her on.

“T MISSED my — my companion, of

J- course; yet the days were complete
and full. Until — until after some weeks
like that, there finally arrived a night
when I too thought that there might,’
after all, be something in — in that some-
thing which usually is between a man
and a woman shut up alone together. A
night when I called myself a fool for at
least not trying and learning. A night
when at last — standing down there in the
moonlight, just outside the temple door,
Haviland Nesbit put his arms about me
— and I let him. And we kissed. And
just at that moment, although neither of
us had heard even a rustle before, there
came a spring from the roof, and some-
how I was knocked to one side; while
Haviland — not even much mauled, but
dead of a broken neck before he could
so much as cry out — lay in a crumpled
heap at my feet. And then I saw the
tiger, without a backward look, like a
fierce yellow river, flowing off through
the jungle.”

"Violette!” I shuddered, and glanced
involuntarily up toward the eaves
beneath which we were sitting.

At which my hostess laughed again —

a little, low, pearly gurgle, soulless and
bell-like — fairy laughter. "And still you
need not be afraid,” she repeated gently.
"For he knows now that I will not ex-
periment again.”

"But what did you do — about Havi-
land? For no one at home has ever heard
what became of him — have they?”

"You see how I trust you, having
made you my friend,” she answered.
"No, no one knows — nor will, till I too
am dead. But then, if you should hap-
pen to be still alive, you may tell, if you
like. But no, I didn’t tell then. My aunt
would have hated it so — all the talk; and
there seemed no reason to. I called Ati,
and we buried him over there, under
that lovely tree, half purple flowers on
one side and orange berries on the other.
I don’t know where he would rather lie
for that last long rest — do you? But I
was furious then too — furious! If Maijan
had come back then in any shape — es-
pecially in his big tiger body ”

"Violette, you don’t mean that you
aaually believe ”

"It’s no matter. You may think what
you like, but if the tiger had returned.
. . . However, he didn’t — not then; and
neither did the white cat. Not for sev-
eral days. But then one morning I
looked up and there he was, standing in
the door again, with the sun a bright
blob behind him. And I took down a
kris from the wall, the one w’hich hangs
always above my desk, and I walked to-
ward him — meaning to put an end to it
all, of course — remembering poor Havi-
land, who had hardly earned the fate
which befell him. But then — but then —
Matjan Ketjil didn’t run away, you see;
instead just stood and looked at me. And
I knew myself better by then — so what
would you? I am not as other women.
This is my life. And although I am fond
of you, my dear, very — and one or two

WEIRD TALES

others — still I am always a little lonely,
except when I am alone. And he was too
beautiful to kill. So — so after a moment
I hung the kris back on the wall again.
And that’s all.”

For a breath we both sat silent. Then
over our shoulders came the voice of Ati.
"Nonja, makan is served.” And we rose
and went in.

A fter dinner, over our coffee and
w liqueurs, there was a little more
talk — fragmentary, but satisfying — ^most-
ly about the East. But I felt unusually
tired and so excused myself early and
withdrew to my cubicle — so perfect in its
appointments, but so austere and cell-
like. Then hastily I prepared for bed,
but weary as I was, found that I could
not sleep. And presently I heard a soft
thud and a slithering tile, not quite above
my room, but somewhere not far away
np(Mi the roof -of the house. And I sprang
from bed and stood on tiptoe to look
out through my single window — a very
high one, protected by stout steel bars.
From there I could catch a glimpse of
the lawn, badced by a black wall of
jungle. The clearing was a bowl of
moonlight, white and clean and lonely,
with no movement in it at first. Then I
saw my hostess walk across the open
space in her trailing white dinner-gown,
with a cigarette, glowing like a fire-fly, in
her hand. Like some rare white tropical
bird, stately and cold and lovely, she
paced back and forth, slowly, superbly.
And then — then I saw melt out of the
shadows, like a thicker shadow forming,
a sinuous, splendid shape, tawny-striped
and fearful. And suddenly there was a
tiger walking beside the woman. Two
creatures of another world they seemed,
one no more royal than the other, both
lofty, lord-like, stately, pacing up and
down in the witchlight, in a weird con-

tentment of untenable communion. And
God, how beautiful they were! I stared
until my teeth chattered, then crept back
to bed, feeling myself very small and
child-like and earthy.

And the next morning the white cat
came as always, and lapped its cream,
sitting solemnly upon a chair placed for
it between my hostess and me. And I
saw that its eyes were two slit-gashed
moons, solemn and wise, sad and inscrut-
able — and big — bigger than it. And
later it lay upon its cushion, while Vio-
lette as usual, even when I was there, sat
at her desk for a little, writing — ^with the
sun-scent of marigolds all about them —
concentrated in them. And I knew that in
all that she wrote there would be the
swirling, spiraling, leering, heart-scorch-
ing, twisted, other-world thoughts which
had once gotten themselves engraved
upon all of the temple doors out there —
thoughts like the carvings upon the door
which guarded the house I was in. The
sun on the fur of the cat was blinding —
the hair of my friend was virgin gold.
They were sun and snow on a mountain
— they were all that most of us are
not. . . .

wo days later I came away.

And now Violette Adair is dead
of a fever, and lies buried — not beside
Haviland Nesbit, but by her own request,
just beneath the ground, very shallowly,
in the center of the lawn before her own
house, where her bones may be blessed
and bleached for ever by the sun and the
moon and the rains of Java. And no one
goes near or disturbs her; for it is said
by the natives that night and day a tiger,
or its ghost, patrols her grave.

Whether that last is true or not, I do
not know; but I do know what I saw. . . <
And now that she is gone, as she said I
mi^it, I give you her story.

"The captive abruptly reolixed the speaker was iiM
spired by iasoaity.''

oyage of the
Neutralia

By B. WALLIS

^An exciting story of weird adventures and a strange voyage through space to
other planets — by the author of "The Abysmal Horror”
and other fascinating thrill -tales

The Story Thus Far

A YLMER CARSCADDEN, eminent
/■% American scientist, discovers and
manufactures metal impervious
to gravitation, and also under intense

cold repelled by other substances. He
is financed by Hugh Burgoyne. They
construct a large shell, christened Neu-
tralia, with which to explore beyond our
planet’s atmosphere. The two, with

This gtoiy began In WEIBD TALES for November

WEIRD TALES

Jacob Flint, an old employee, set out for
our satellite. After starting, two former
employees, Kobloth and Whipps, dis-
charged for spying, are found stowaways
in the storeroom.

After some experiments in arresting
the stupendous speed of the shell they
arrive safely at the moon. Finding an
atmosphere, tliough rarefied, capable of
supporting life, they alight in the great
crater of Gspernicus. Moss and giant
cacti are the sde vegetation; but gold and
diamonds are found in large deposits.

While the scientist is inspecting these,
Koblotli and Whipps suddenly attack
Carscadden and Flint, stunning them
with rocks. The treacherous pair instant-
ly dash for the shell, hoping to make off
with it and later return to exploit the
vast wealth they have seen. Burgoyne,
however, arrives on the scene and at the
point of his gun compels them to sur-
render.

Curscadden and Flint recovering, all
return, and the prisoners are locked in
the storeroom. Then tlie shell is headed
for Mars. Traveling at a million miles an
hour they arrive and alight. They find
the surface is covered by a network of
great cables. A curious carriage comes
racing along a cable, and its occupant
immediately attacks them with electri-
fied wires. Other carriages arrive and
join in the attack.

One of the carriages is shot down; it
contains a number of electrical instru-
ments and a loathsome spider-like crea-
ture. The Neutrdia is nearly captured by
tlie Martians. After a sharp struggle the
adventurers succeed in regaining it,
though Whipps is apparently electro-
cuted and dragged to a carriage by a
cable. Carscadden rendered unconscious
by a gas-bomb cast by the Martians, his
companions w'ere compelled to head out
into space without direction or objective.

Later Carscadden regains consciousness
and finds tlie shell is attracted by Jupiter
and heading for that planet at enormous
speed. Near Jupiter they pass through
its ring of meteoroids and narrowly
escape destruction. They manage to
alight on an inner satellite. As their air
supply is dangerously low they are com-
pelled at once to endeavor to return to
the earth. Sixty hours later they discover
that tlie sun’s pull must carry them be-
yond the earth to plunge into the flaming
giant; a slight error in a decimal was the
cause of this terrible catastrophe. When
thej' try to head for Venus, they find that
the shell’s cover has become jammed. At
the last second they manage to force the
cover over and change direction to Venus,
now dangerously close to them.

The story continues:

12. A Tropic World. The Centipedes

R ecovering quickly, but still dazed
■ and shaken, the four men slowly let
down tlie ladder and descended. They
were well armed, and the world they had
alighted on seemed a very calm and
peaceful one, a very different world from
the others they had visited. It was more
like the earth than the moss- and lichen-
covered wild rocks of the moon, the red
deserts and gloomy ravines of Mars, or
the glowing swirling gaseous Jupiter.
Here was life — ^grasses, trees, flowers, and
pure life-giving air, just as in their own
honest planet.

The Neutralia had fallen on a stretch
of rising ground, crushing several large
trees in its descent. All around them, in
every direction stretched tlie shady forest;
a mass of trees of many varieties, shapes,
and heights, some leafy, some fir-like,
some gorgeous with vivid-hued blossoms,
and many hung with sprays and clusters
of large brilliant-hued fruit. Among the

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

branches flitted strange birds, and the
spot resounded with curious cries and
whistling calls. Great and grotesque-
looking insects buzzed and droned in-
cessantly. Squirrels and lizard-like ani-
mals darted among the undergrowth and
hung on to the tree trunks, chattering and
gaping at the intruders. Away in the dis-
tance, where the rising ground they stood
on, and a stretch of thinner vegetation,
permitted it, were visible a great green
plain and the silver line of a river thread-
ing it. They also were conscious that the
air was very humid and hot, and the di-
rect glare of the sun, now much larger
than it appears from the earth, was al-
most unbearable, although it was shining
through a thin cloud veiling, a veiling
so extensive that not a gleam of blue
sky was visible through it.

It was a tropic world into which they
had fallen — a world of intense, humid
heat, and of prolific fauna and flora.

"Do you reckon any of this fruit is
safe to eat?” asked Flint, eyeing a large
tree whose branches were laden profusely
with clusters of green-skinned, pear-like
objects. "I’m sick of the canned junk
we have been feeding on.”

"I don’t know, but I’m going to take
a chance on these extra-sized bananas,”
declared Burgoyne, tearing off what cer-
tainly did look like a gigantic banana,
fully a foot long, from a palm-like tree.

The others laughed but refrained from
following his example, Carscadden re-
marking that it would be unwise for all
to chance being ill at the same time; and
if the experimenters expired it was all
for the good of science.

"And now, what is our next move?”
asked Kobloth.

"As Venus is practically the same size
as the earth, and the day the same
length, I will take the sun’s altitude and
we can set our watches to Venus’ time.
Then we must fill the air-tanks, and

be ready for instant flight, if necessary.
After that we can shut ourselves up in
the globe and make up for lost sleep.”

This program was completed before
nine o’clock, the hour of sundown; and
long before that the four men were ex-
periencing the enervating lassitude that in-
variably follows hard upon a time of
stress and intense emotion, and had be-
come so drowsy that even their novel
surroundings failed to interest them. All
they craved was rest and sleep, and the
Nirvana of their couches inside tlie Neu-
tralia.

K obloth, the first to awake the fol-
• lowing morning, lay for a little en-
joying the soft mellow light of a hazy
dawn that filled the globe’s interior. The
effect was beautiful in the extreme, and
for a while he regarded it with much ap-
proval. But the light also showed him
the forms of his three sleeping com-
panions, and the sight aroused the basic
evil of his nature. He had no love for
them, and it pleased him to conjure up
mental pictures of the revenge he fervent-
ly trusted would one day be vouchsafed
him, when the three would be as com-
pletely at his mercy as they were that mo-
ment, wrapped in their slumber. It was
a balm to his vindictive pride to know
that even then he could have shot the
three without the least chance of reprisal
or future discovery. It would have been
very simple, for he still retained the re-
volver with which he had aided in re-
pulsing the spider-Martians. Their
corpses could be left on this lonely
planet, or discarded later in the pro-
fundity of space. As for navigating the
Neutralia — well, he had picked up
enough knowledge of its rudiments to
feel confident that the return to the earth
from this planet would be a compara-
tively simple problem. He could use a
compass and sextant; and wait until the

WEIRD TALES

earth’s place in its orbit lay exactly at
right angles to tliat of this planet, turn
the great cover, and slow down when
close to his objective.

Was the moment propitious? Why
not? Moreover, he had left word with
an assistant in Prague to spread a report
in the scientific journals that he was ex-
perimenting with a space-ship; when
these fools had kept their intention a
profound secret. Could anything be bet-
ter? He had only to rid himself of his
jailers, and he could return and claim all
the honor and glory, not to say fortune,
that would be heape-d on the originator
of this tremendous undertaking. The
tantalizing thought fired his evil spirit to
rash and impetuous action. Why not?

His hand crept to his pocket, and his
fingers closed on the butt of a loaded
gun. A set, malignant glare leapt into his
narrow ej'es. Yes! now was tlie moment!
Then Burgoyne stirred, sat up, rubbed
his eyes, and yawned leisurely. The ac-
tion unnerved Kobloth; he knew that a
single slip would seal his fate, there
would be no next time. His fingers re-
laxed their hold on the thing in his
pocket; he was too late. Another
time

"Good morning, Herr Kobloth,"
greeted the unsuspecting Burgoyne. "You
see, that banana wasn’t so deadly after
all; I’m going out to sample another.”

Now the others aw'akencd, and tlie
door was opened, and breakfast eaten in
the open, a meal that included several of
those delicious giant bananas. Of course
they went armed, and kept their eyes
open, but so far had not seen the least
sign of any form of life that could be
thought seriously inimical. As yet it was
not so hot as on their landing, for tlie
heavy white clouds had not been dissi-
pated by the sun’s later fierce energy.

"If it wefe not for the immense quan-
tity of moisture in the air of this planet

w'e should be roasted to death before
midday,” remadeed Carscadden. "We
have landed on the southern hemisphere,
and in the height of summer. The con-
stant cloudy veiling protects all this luxur-
iant vegetation from scorching, but even
at that we must be prepared to experience
a heat unknown to our own planet.”

"I presume you will investigate for a
while, and take some more photographs
to add to your wonderful collection?”
queried Kobloth suavely, and suppress-
ing his chagrin at the prospect of a hasty
departure, which the scientist’s words
seemed to hint at. For he realized that
this was the last, and the ideal, occasion
on which he might hope to consummate
the crime his mind was set on.

"So long as we can stand the heat, and
find no hostile life that menaces our
safety, there is no particuLir hurry. Start-
ing in the night I could reach the earth
any time within the next eight weeks,”
declared Carscadden with decision.

"Are we likely to find any brainy
nightmares here, do you think?” asked
Burgoyne, leaning his broad bade against
a fallen forest monarch.

"I hardly think so; the planet is
younger than the earth and the time has
been too short to evolve a high grade of
intelligence. No doubt there is an abun-
dance of wild animals, poisonous insects,
reptiles and the lower forms of life — in
fact, a much exaggerated replica of the
conditions met with on the steaming
coast of West Africa. But, I say, Hugh,
just come over here, will you? Quickly!”
Suddenly his voice had grown urgent
and commanding, and so compelling that
without a word Burgoyne at once rose to
his feet and stepped beside him.

"What’s the trouble?” he asked in
great surprize.

"Look there, on the tree trunk you
leaned against!” he directed with a point-
ing finger.

W. T.— 5

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

A long, rusty brown object was creep-
ing along the rotting bark that Burgoyne
had leaned against. Its long body was set
low on many-jointed legs, and its hc-ad
carried a pair of lobster-like mandibles,
which were open-jawed, and held high
above as though ready for instant offen-
sive. It was fully a foot in length, and
its repulsive head had not been more
than the same distance from Burgoyne’s
when the scientist noted it; for the brute
up to then had been hidden by a loosened
fold of the rotting bark — a fact that was
patent when, as the four men started, an-
other of the hideous creatures suddenly
appeared from behind the same loosened
strip.

’’Centipedes, or scorpions? You have
had a narrow escape! I do not doubt but
a bite on neck or face from one of those
brutes would kill a man very quickly and
painfully.”

"Look out! there’s another — and the
brutes are coming for us!” cried Kobloth.

These loathsome things were evidently
hostile, and not in the least frightened
at their first sight of human beings. For
there was no doubt that they were making
toward the watchers. The men hastily
snatched up whatever happened to be
handy, thick broken tree limbs, and some
small boulders. But at close quarters the
brutes were quicker at turning and twist-
ing than they bargained for. Burgoyne
and Kobloth wdth a hail of savage blows
smashed to pulp a couple of them, but
Flint, who happened to be standing amid
some trailing vines, missed his footing
as he aimed a blow, and sprawled head-
long. In a flash the brute had seized his
boot between the keen-points of his jaws,
and had pierced clean through the stout
leather and into the foot. A cry of pain
from Flint announced the fact, and in a
second Carscadden had come down with
the brute beneath his heavily shod feet,
crushing the scaly segments.

W. T.— 6

No time could be lost, for tliey did not
know how venomous these brutes might
be. At once the victim’s boot and stock-
ing were torn off, and the two little
punctures slaslied with a knife and made
to bleed freely. Then Kobloth, wko had
rushed to the globe, produced an anti-
septic and bandages. By the way he
handled the wound it was obvious that he
had some medical knowledge, and the
others were pleased with the deft and
business-like way he treated the injury.
Kobloth also was pleased: he desired be-
yond all to create an atmosphere of amity
between the three and himself and lull
the suspicions he knew they never lost
sight of.

'T do not think this will be very seri-
ous,” he said as they carried Flint within
the Neutralia, where he would be safe
from further attacks of a similar nature.
"I imagine that most of the poison these
brutes carrj' in their hollow jaws was ex-
pended in passing throu^i the leather.
If he had received a full dose I have no
doubt by now the limb would be para-
lyzed, and he would be unconscious.”

."Quite so,” agreed Carscadden in a
more gracious tone than he had so far
used in addressing the Austrian. "But we
must be more careful; likely there are
many more of their kind in these thick
forests.”

"I hardly think so. The forest would
not be so full of small creatures if such
savage brutes were plentiful. But it
would be a good idea to leave one of our
number always on board the globe, to
guard it against a possible invasion of
such giant insects,” Kobloth suggested
craftil)% for this would divide their forces
and much simplify matters for him.

"A good idea, Kobloth; we will at once
put it in operation. But, although it may-
sound unfriendly after the way you have
just aided us, I must ask you always to

WEIRD TALES

make one of the party exploring. Apart
from other considerations, your entomo-
logical and botanical knowledge will be
very useful on such occasions,” he added
to soften the seeming ungracious de-
mand. On this matter Carscadden was
adamant; for though they had come to
look on the Austrian as a changed and
repentant man after the awful death of
his companion, yet he had with Burgoyne
decided that never again would they let
him out of their sight or leave him alone
with the Neutralia. However, the de-
mand was exactly what Kobloth expected,
and fitted in very nicely with a scheme he
had recently been hatching.

As Flint’s foot was so painful and
weak that he was unable to walk, it de-
volved upon Carscadden and Burgoyne
to take turns at sentry duty. Kobloth
always accompanied one or the other,
and he did not fail to make himself
very agreeable and even useful; for he
was a keen observer, and really had a
fund of accurate knowledge of the nat-
ural sciences.

S EVERAL days passed busily. The for-
est was searched in many directions.
Photographs were taken until all their
films were exhausted. Large collections
of insects and the small animals that
abounded in the shady woods were killed
and temporarily preserved in a mixture
of Carscadden’s own invention. Many
astronomical observations were taken, and
the scientist congratulated himself tliat
the cause of science would be advanced
even more than he had hoped when he
started.

At last there seemed little more that
they could accomplish without a pro-
longed exploration, which was impossible
under the circumstances. Moreover, the
heavy, humid heat began to tell on them,
sapping their energies, mental and physi-
cal, and the enormous flies and other

vicious insect pests were at times almost
unbearable. Of the mongrel centipede-
scorpions they saw but two more speci-
mens, which they promptly killed.

'Then one evening the Austrian casual-
ly suggested an expedition.

"I should like to obtain a few more
Specimens of the Venezian fish,” he ob-
served thoughtfully. "And a few more
bottles of the water; it certainly contains
elements not found in our home waters.
Do you think you could spare the time to
go with me, Mr. Carscadden? I should
like your opinion on a curious rock for-
mation I noted a little way off on our last
trip in that direction.” He asked the
question quietly and with a pleasing
deference to the scientist’s opinion.

"Yes, we might make a final trip. Yet
I don’t know, Kobloth, that we ought to
delay our departure much longer, unless
you have really set your mind on this ex-
pedition. Somehow I mistrust the peace
and security that has surrounded us on
this planet — it seems unnatural after our
other experiences,” replied Carscadden
doubtfully.

But the very elements played into Ko-
bloth’s hands. They were standing in
the doorway of the Neutralia, watching
the glow of sunset vanishing amid the
tree-clad slopes of the western hills, when
a sudden bright splash of vivid flame
burst out of one of tire hill crests. It was
followed by a soaring cloud that mush-
roomed gigantically aloft like a huge
opened umbrella, and then came a tre-
mendous roar of sound, and the ground
shook and the Neutralia rocked per-
ceptibly.

"An eruption!” cried Carscadden.
"Astronomers have thought they detected
signs of volcanic activity on Venus. Now
we can confirm their observations. Yes,
we will certainly make the trip, Kobloth.
Luckily this volcano lies in the same di-
rection.”

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALU

For a little the voyagers remained
watching the red glow of the eruption,
though no more bursts of flame or thun-
derous explosions were emitted; but the
mushroom steadily grew larger and in
its reflected glow was seen to mingle with
the ever-present cloud veiling.

In the morning, an hour after sun-
rise, Carscaddcn and Kobloth set out on
their tramp through the forest. They had
blazed a rough trail on their previous
journeys, so found no difiiculty in hold-
ing to their direction. The Austrian
proved an entertaining companion, and
from a scientific angle the two had much
in common. The forest was alive with
birds, animals and insects of strange and
grotesque shapes and vivid coloring. The
atmosphere of Venus is a hotbed for the
growth of gigantic vegetation, and for
gorgeous flowers.

Passing a little to the right of the river
that Kobloth had desired to examine
again, by noon they were at the foot of
the volcanic hill. A heavy steam-cloud,
now and again lit up by flashes of aim-
son flame, still poured from the crater,
and down one side of the hill several
small streams of lava cascaded sluggishly.

"It is still erupting. Shall we chance
ascending?’’ said Carscadden, though he
was already, and eagerly, leading the way
to a slope that seemed fairly scalable
and free from lava streams.

"Tliere is a curious black patch, over
there to the northwest, tliat I cannot make
anything of,’’ remarked the scientist
when they had come as near to the crater
as they dared. "It is neither rock nor
forest, as far as I can tell. What do you
make of it?” he asked Kobloth as he
stood and stared at the thing tliat was
puzzling him.

"Queer,” agreed Kobloth shortly.
"Probably scorched jungle or grass,” he
suggested after a single glance at the spot
his companion indicated. For Armand

Kobloth was thinking of something very
different.

T hey walked a little way to one side
and inspected a lava flow, a mere
trickle a few yards wide, and already
cru.sting, though still so hot that they
could not approach closely. Then they
descended, and before reaching the
shelter of the dense forest Carscadden
turned and stared once more at the black
patch in the distance. But it had grown
larger, and was wider and nearer, and he
fancied a faint humming sound came
from it, borne toward them on the light
warm breeze.

"It’s moving — coming this way like a
swarm of locusts! It must be living. We
must get back to the Neutralia in time to
warn them. We know nothing of what
strange forms of life may exist in these
hills,” he muttered uneasily.

"We have plenty of time,” Kobloth as-
sured hastily. "See, it is not moving in
the direction of the Neutralia, though it
will probably pass over the spot we stand
on,” he aied, as he too noted the move-
ment and its direction. "Look out!
Centipedes!” he shouted in warning.

Carscadden sprang aside just in time to
escape tlie quick rush of one of the fear-
less voracious monsters, and a blow from
a heavy stick Kobloth carried quickly dis-
patched it. But another, and still another,
came out of the low brush that clothed
the hillside, and met a similar fate.

As the two men looked about them,
they became aware that tlie living things
in the brush, and in the forest close to
them, were in a state of commotion and
panic. Birds flew off to the south in
flocks and clouds; squirrels and rat-like
things emerged into the open, then scur-
ried off in the same direction; and lizards
and all kinds of crawling things squirmed
and twisted after them.

"Reminds me of a forest fire,” cried

WEIRD TALES

Kobloth. "They all seem badly scared
at something.”

"It must be that blackness. It must be
a swarm of living things, perhaps those
very centipedes! They are certainly the
most ferocious brutes we have seen here.
Like ants, they may send their skirmishers
ahead of the main body, and those we
have just killed are the advance agents!
It is high time that we too get a move
on,” cried Carscadden with decision.

"All, there’s another of the brutes! It
looks as though you might be right; for
every living thing is certainly deadly
scared of something.” He paused, as a
sudden resolve leapt upon him. "And
that settles it!”

As Carscadden stepped aside to avoid
the scorpion, Kobloth brought his heavy
stick aashing down on his companion’s
head. Instantly stunned, the scientist fell
forward on his face and lay silent and
motionless. A quick blow accounted for
the monstrous insect, and then the Aus-
trian bent over his unconscious victim.

"Couldn’t have been better!” he mut-
tered jubilantly. "Just stunned enough
for my purpose. Now, you arrogant fool,
who is the master?” he sneered in bitter
derision, as he pulled a long length of
stout cord out of a capacious pcxket.

Raising the limp body, he propped it
erect against a massive tree trunk, to
which he bound it, rapidly but carefully.
As he finished his task the scientist’s eyes
flicked open, and for a moment he stared
dully and uncomprehendingly at his cap-
tor. Then abruptly he realized what had
happened.

"What are you going to do, you treach-
erous scoundrel?” he demanded ccx)lly,
but he knew that neither reason nor emo-
tion would turn his captor from his pur-
pose, whatev'er that might be.

"Just leave you to yourself. Nothing
violent, I assure you, Mr. Carscadden,”
replied Kobloth, rubbing his thick hands

together and smiling as though tiie de-
cision immensely pleased him. "You
know, the wheel must turn sooner or
later, and now I find that our positions
are reversed; I am the dictator and you
are the despised supplicant. When I saw
the eruption, I fancied that you might like
to be here in case of a second outburst;
and when this immense swarm of savage
insects came on the scene, I knew my
revenge would be as complete as even I
could wish for. Can you picture what a
mess these brutes will make of you when
they arrive? By that time I shall most
probably be comfortably installed in the
Neutralia, and congratulating myself on
having also come to an understanding
with our friend Burgoyne — a final one.
As for old Flint, I shall just heave him
out and leave him to find what is left of
you. ’Thanks to your instructions, I can
work the Neutralia very nicely now, and
I anticipate no difi&culty in returning. I,
Armand Kobloth, the only man ever to
return from such an epochal journey!
Glory, fame, wealth awaits me, while
you, Mr. Carscadden, will leam a great
deal about centipedes! A good, and long,
day to you, Aylmer Carscadden!” And
as the last words fell smoothly from his
lips, there flamed in his evil eyes such a
light of rapture, derision and hate that
the captive abruptly realized the speaker
was most certainly inspired by insanity;
the man was a homicidal maniac!

13. The March of the Centipedes

I OOKING back now and again, Kobloth
■J went down the hill, reached the for-
est, turned and waved his hand in de-
rision. As soon as he disappeared, the
captive set himself to breaking loose. But
after a half-hour’s fierce struggling he
was forced to acknowledge defeat. He
was helpless, alone, left there to meet
death in horrible guise, either to be torn

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

to shreds by loathsome brutes, the fiery
agony of molten lava, or the long-drawn-
out misery of thirst and hunger!

There was little ground for hope; Ko-
bloth would get back to the Neutralia
easily before sunset, take Burgoyne by
surprize, and Flint in his present condi-
tion would be easy to dispose of. And
meanwhile the Future was racing to meet
the Present!

From his already painful position he
could see the black horde of insects com-
ing nearer and nearer, and could plainly
hear the humming drone they made in
their progress. Like a vast black tide they
surged over precipice and gully, rolling
along and spreading out on both flanks
their savage myriads, in a front that
must have been many hundred yards
wide, yet so densely packed that not a
speck of rock or vegetation was visible
between them.

Watching their rate of advance, he
estimated that they would reach the vol-
canic hill about two hours before dusk,
long before any aid could reach him,
even had it already started. He shud-
dered at the awful thought, yet, in a
curiously impersonal sort of way, found
himself wondering what could be the
reason of this migration of the monstrous
insects. What blind instinct compelled
them to band together and invade new
territory, devouring every living thing
that could not escape them, as they
poured on their way to some unknown
objective? A similar cause no doubt in-
spires the lemmings of Norway, the
Orient locusts, and some species of tropi-
cal ants. Well, what did it matter? — the
end was inevitable.

How time passed he could scarcely tell.
Already the torment of his position, the
humid heat, the intolerable vicious flies,
the insects that crawled over him, made
every moment unutterably miserable.

And every moment the black tide was
surging nearer.

The time came when several of the
advance guard raced past him in pursuit
of the small fleeing creatures that
streamed by him, but none noticed the
bound man staring with horror at them.

The sun sank low in the sky, and soft
dusky shadows crept into the forest be-
low him. Where he lay there was a deep
bay of sparse vegetation, and the forest,
a long finger of growth up a shallow de-
pression, meandered between him and
the oncoming tide. With straining eyes
he was now searching this green finger,
waiting to see the vanguard of loathsome
brutes emerge from it.

Abruptly strange and ominous rum-
blings shook the hillside and a red glow
came into the cloud veiling about it, and
a fine dust began to fall all around him.
Another eruption was evidently brewing.
So far up the slope his position would
be one of extreme danger. Well, better
far to die thus than to be tom to pieces
by that stream of smothering abomina-
tion.

The noise continued, rising to a thun-
derous roaring, interspersed now and
again with violent concussions that shook
the ground and brought heavy masses of
rock crashing down the hillside. Even
the tree he was bound to trembled and
lurched unsteadily. The fine dust came
down so tliickly that he had to close his
eyes to avoid being blinded. But one
thing he had to be thankful for: the dust
had driven away the vicious flies, and
the crawling insects seemed to abate their
energy.

For a while he stood, unseeing, patient,
endeavoring to brace himself for the ter-
rible moment, to meet his fate with forti-
tude. Then, hearing the dreadful dron-
ing even through tlie uproar, he knew
that the black tide was fast nearing him.
He opened his eyes, and through the veil-

WEIRD TALES

ing dust, which was now quickly abating,
he saw the foremost ranks of the crawl-
ing brutes just emerging from the long
finger of forest. Everything around was
lighted up by the red glow from lurid
heavens.

At that moment a terrific aash re-
sounded, and a huge tongue of flame was
spat out of the crater; then the bound
man heard the swift rush of something
cascading down the hillside behind him.
It was not visible, but he knew it was
a stream of lava. Whatever was going to
happen would now shortly be over!

Meanwhile, apparently indifferent to
the clamor, the living tide poured on
through the forest. Now the foremost of
the repulsive things, a monster nearly two
feet long, was not a couple of hundred
of yards from him. It appeared to sight
the captive, for it suddenly quickened its
pace, a horrible wriggling, squirming mo-
tion, and came straight for him.

Then into his field of view, from be-
hind him, came another racing monster;
and this one was darkly glowing, and
advanced by a constant overbrimming of
a crimson life that flooded and overtook
it from behind; and as it ran, blue
lambent spurts of flame and puffs of
wispy smoke told of the intense heat
raging within the stream of lava.

Helpless and fascinated, Carscadden
watclied the fiery stream, and the holo-
caust that instantly was consummated;
watched the leader vanish in a tiny squirt
of vapor, and the oncoming thousands of
the front ranks, driven ahead by the
horde behind them, licked up by the fiery
flood in a second; and to him was v/afted,
on a slight breeze, the abominable stench
of the aemated myriads.

Not one passed the deadly river, for
it lay exactly between the black tide and
the tree he was bound to. At last, with
a great flanking movement the horde
swung southward, and side by side the

two terrible streams swept down the hill-
side on their devastating migration, and
a line of smoking reek ran ever between
them — the countless thousands of loath-
some things being scorched to cinders.

For the moment he was saved from in-
stant extinction, but not for long could
he count on that succor. For the stream
of lava was increasing in volume and its
banks fast widening, and every minute
its edge was creeping nearer him. Short-
ly he could feel the heat from it, and
his eyes smarted with its pungent gases.
Soon the fiery breath was as a blast from
a furnace, and he was choking, and
gasping for breath; drumming noises
filled his head, and whirling lights
flashed before him. He was just con-
scious of falling into a black and seem-
ingly bottomless abyss, and was dimly
aware of a huge round, gray object de-
scending from the sky, close to him — and
then he fell into the abyss of nothingness,

14. The Fight in the Nentralia

W HILE the second eruption was in
full progress, Kobloth reached the
foot of the knoll the Neutralia rested
upon. He was creeping from tree to tree
very cautiously, and gradually working
his way toward the little clearing. At the
last bit of cover he halted and minutely
scrutinized the vicinity of the great globe.

As he hesitated, listening intently, Bur-
goyne and Flint came to the open door-
way. Kobloth’s revolver, already in his
grasp, snapped up to the level of his
shoulder. The two men were talking;
the leveled arm dropped back again, and
its owner quietly listened.

"I had better get off,” Burgoyne was
saying. "It is late already, and I have
a queer hunch that something has hap-
pened to Carscadden. You know, in spite
of his changed manner, I don't trust the
Austrian, and I don’t like this long ab-

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

sence,” he declared, shaking his head
gloomily.

"Yes, I reckon you’re right — I’ve no
use either for that blasted Austrian,
though Mr. Carscadden seems to think
he’s been converted, got sort of civilized.
But take care of yourself — and I’m not
stuck on being left alone at nightfall in
this dark forest,” said Flint emphatically.

"You will be all right in the Neu-
tralia. Don’t worry; you can shut the
door and nothing can get at you. As for
myself. I’ll keep my eyes skinned; and
save for those centipedes we haven’t
seen a thing to be afraid of,” Burgoyne
rejoined as he descended the ladder.

He passed within a few feet of the
crouching Kobloth, and that worthy, now
calm and cool in his malevolent purpose,
had sense enough to let him go unmo-
lested.

"A good riddance!” he muttered under
his breath. '"That will save a shell, and
possibly a little trouble with the other.”

A little later he rose to his feet and
boldly walked to the Neutralia and
ascended the rope ladder. He stepped
into the globe before Flint, who was
resting, had heard him.

"Where’s Burgoyne?” he cried in as-
sumed concern. "I want him at once —
Mr. Carscadden has had an accident.
Quick! Where is he? We must go to the
aid of our friend at once,” he exclaimed
as though greatly worried.

"Why, haven’t you met him? He has
only been gone a few minutes.”

"I came by a short-cut through the for-
est,” Kobloth explained hastily. "Has he
gone many minutes?” he asked anxiously.

"Possibly five minutes — he cannot be
half a mile away. But what ” com-

menced Flint eagerly.

"Come to the door,” Kobloth inter-
rupted impatiently. "We can talk later.
I must get him back at once. Let us

shout and fire a few shots; he cannot help
hearing them.”

Flint, fearful for the unknown injury
his master had suffered, immediately
limped to the door, and was about to
shout at the top of his lung power, when
the Austrian gave him a violent shove
forward. Taken unawares, the old man
tottered on his lame foot, clutched wildly
around for support, and crashed earth-
ward with a loud cry for help. Luckily,
however, he snatched at the ladder as he
fell, and though it was torn from his
grasp, yet it greatly broke his fall. As it
was, he came down heavily on his injured
foot, and collapsed on the ground in
agony.

"Ah, my dear Flint, how unfortunate!
Another accident case to attend to,”
sneered Kobloth with a mocking laugh,
as he looked down on the writhing suf-
ferer. "I regret, however, that I shall
not have time to devote to it. Good day,
Mr. Jacob Flint,” laughed the callous
maniac.

As he spoke, Kobloth whipped out a
long knife he had again got hold of
secretly, and began to slash at the stout
rope that secured the globe to a great tree
trunk; for of course he could not close
the door until it was removed.

But Flint was not so helpless as the
Austrian had thought, and by a strong
effort of will pulled himself together and
twisting around managed to extract the
revolver from his belt, and taking a hasty
aim fired at the scoundrel. By a mere
chance the bullet smashed a finger of
Kobloth’s right hand, causing him to
drop the knife and give vent to a yell of
pain and rage. In a fury of mad passion
he grasped his own revolver with his left
hand and, quite redcless of the noise he
would create, fired tliree shells at the
old man. However, what with rage, and
the awkwardness of using this little-
trained hand, the object of his aim suf-

WEIRD TALES

fered no damage. Flint, in spite of his
pain, pluckily fired off his remaining five
shells, and a bullet whistling close to
Kobloth’s ear caused the Austrian to re-
treat from the doorway just as Burgoyne,
at top speed, dashed into the clearing.

"He’s inside!” gasped Flint. "I’ve
driven him in! He will be off in a minute
if we can’t stop him!” he cried weakly,
and then collapsed.

Burgoyne did not hesitate a second.

"I’ll stop him, if I die for it!” he cried
fiercely as he rushed to the ladder. As
he swung himself through the doorway,
he heard the clang and rattle of gearing
being strained at, and likely it was this
clamor that accounted for the Austrian
not hearing his voice or the noise of his
ascent.

The scoundrel was madly tearing at
the wheel, but obviously something had
gone wrong with the mechanism, for be-
yond an inch or so in either direction
there was no turning it. Just so much
Burgoyne saw as he leapt at the maniac —
for that too was obvious; no man in his
right senses, and knowing what Kobloth
knew, would dream of releasing the
Neuiralta without first closing the door;
for in a single second the globe would
be bej’ond tlic atmosphere, and the in-
tense cold of outer space would freeze
the occupant to a block of solid ice in a
twinkling.

15. W^e Must Chance It!

B urgoyne might be young, very mus-
cular, and in good training, but Ko-
bloth w'as tough, and for the moment en-
dowed with the prodigious strength of
a maniac. Twice the Austrian went
down, but all hands, feet,. and teeth, and
snarling like some wild animal, he re-
covered himself and renewed the battle
with unabated vigor. But the end came
suddenly’, and chance vanquished the

tiger and devil incarnate. Stepping back-
ward he lost his balance, and Burgoyne
thrust all his two hundred pounds of big
bone and hard muscle against him. The
maniac went crashing, and his head
struck the steel spokes of the w'heel he
had been vainly striving to move. With
a clioking grunt he collapsed and his
muscles relaxed. Tlie battle had ended.

This was no time to be squeamish, and
Burgoyne was certainly not the man to
indulge in such luxury. Without waiting
to discover what damage had been in-
flicted, or if he even lived, Burgoyne
dragged him to the trap-door, and fling-
ing it open, tumbled his late opponent
into the dark hold as though he were
handling a sack of flour.

"Thank goodness, Flint!” he cried as
in the doorway he saw that the man he
had left unconscious now had his eyes
open and was w’eakly struggling to his
feet. "I was afraid he had potted you
badly.”

"No, he didn’t get me; just an old
man’s foolishness going off like that,”
Flint called back apologetically. "I
reckon you have settled him?” he queried
angrily.

"Thanks to good luck he’s quiet
enough now. He may be dead, but I
fancy he’s too tough to exterminate so
easily. But what are we to do about
Aylmer?” he asked anxiously as he slid to
the ground. "I am afraid the brute has
killed him, or done some terrible injury
to him.”

'"There’s only one thing we can do,”
he declared after Flint had briefly
sketclied what had occurred previous to
Burgoyne’s appearance. "We must en-
deavor to rouse up the scoundrel and ex-
tract the truth from him. Can you man-
age the ladder, Flint?”

With a little assistance Flint ascended
the ladder, and the two men went into
the hold. Switching on the light, they

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

saw the Austrian lay huddled limply
against one of the tanks.

"He’s had a nasty smash,” said Bur-
goyne after a hasty examination. "But
I don’t think any bones are broken.
Looks like a case of concussion. How-
ever, we must do our best to pull him
round, for the sake of Carscadden.”

They applied restoratives, and in a few'
moments the Austrian’s eyes opened.

"Kobloth, where is Mr. Carscadden?”
said Burgoyne quietly, but very sternly.
"Listen! We are going to have tlie truth
from you, if we have to torture or hang
you to get it!” he added fiercely; and
though the latter infliction would have
defeated its purpose, yet no man noticed
it, so grim was the tone of the speaker.

But not a word of response broke from
the Austrian’s lips, neither excuse, nor
denial, nor defiance. Nor did his eyes
betray the slightest fear, or interest, or
even consciousness of anyone speaking.
Instead, the narrow eyes stared vacantly
at them, and he commenced to mutter in-
coherently.

Burgoyne and Flint stared at each
other in consternation. Was it delirium,
or madness, or w'as the cunning scoundrel
merely shamming? They bent down to
catch what they might of the broken
babbling. But all they could distinguish
was a word or two now and again that
conveyed no information, or even the
least promise of intelligence. "Look
out!” he repeated several times, and
"Damned centipedes!” he muttered amid
a stream of incoherent babblings. Then
once he called out excitedly, '"They’ve got
him!” after which he relapsed into si-
lence, though his lips moved with unut-
tered ramblings.

Was this shamming, or had his brain
really gone astray? The minutes were fly-
ing, and Carscadden might be still alive,
but in fearful danger. Abruptly Bur-
goyne came to a decision.

"See here, Flint,” he aied loudly.
"This man is shamming. Well, he’ll
either quit it, or we’ll be well rid of a
scoundrel. We’ll give him one last
chance — put your pistol to his ear, and
if he refuses to answer, blow his brains
out. No one will ever be the wiser, and
I’m sick of this villain and his evil do-
ings,” he commanded in a tone of such
pitiless ferocity that for a second Flint
was deceived by it, and stared aghast at
him. But noting that the eyelid hidden
from Kobloth unaccountably closed and
snapped open again, he readily obeyed
its owner, and in a prompt and business-
like manner cocked his revolver and
placed the muzzle again.st the Austrian’s
ear.

"Now, Kobloth, what is it to be? An
answer, or — your grave on Venus!” But
Kobloth still stared vacantly at them, and
seemed not a bit distressed by the pres-
sure of the menacing barrel. "Right, I
give you exactly sixty seconds to decide,”
said Burgoyne, taking out his watch.
"Thirty past — Flint, get ready!” he
snapped, and Flint responded by thrust-
ing the hard barrel more firmly against
its resting-place.

And it was then the Austrian again
commenced to babble, and Burgoyne bent
down and gazed most intently into the
vacant eyes, and distinctly heard the
word "volcano” repeated several times,
then three words strung together: "Run,
the lava!” and then a jumble of mere
soiuids.

"Yes, whether you are mad or sham-
ming, I think that is a hint good enough
to act on,” said Burgoyne tlioughtfully.
"But see her, my friend, don’t make any
mistake — this is only a postponement, not
a reprieve. If we don’t find Aylmer, or
if he is killed, as sure as you now live
a bullet will end you,” And such was
the cold sincerity of his tone that even
Flint knew he was no longer bluffing.

WEIRD TALES

"Come along, Flint!" he cried.
Though we’ll first rope this brute in case
he feels like playing some more of his
devil’s games.”

In a minute they had Kobloth securely
bound with his hands behind him.

"Now to make for the volcano! I
must carry flashlights and lantern, as
it will be dark very soon now,” ex-
claimed Burgoyne, turning to seek these
things in the case they were stored in.

“T t's fully twelve miles to that vol-
A cano,” Flint said slowly, "It’s impos-
sible for you to make the trip through
the forest in the dark; besides, it would
take you all of four hours, and by that
time ” He left the sentence unfin-

ished, though his companion knew what
he hinted at.

"But we must do something! And not
having wings I must walk,” declared the
big man impatiently.

"Wings? No, but we can fly there, or
try to,” replied Flint.

"How? You mean the Neutralia? It’s
a good idea, just a chance. But hold!
something has gone wrong with the turn-
ing-gear — I saw Kobloth straining at it
as I rushed in.”

"Yes, very likely,” agreed Flint coolly.
"See here!” He limped to the wheel,
and sliding back the cover of the gearing-
box, thrust in his hand and withdrew it
grasping a deeply scratched and indented
specimen of a four-inch nail.

"Phew! what the deuce?” was all Bur-
goyne could say.

"Took a liberty. I got to thinking after
you went off; kind of mistrusted that
guy; reckoned he would think it was pie
with me alone to worry about. So I
guessed I’d get things fixed so he couldn’t
monkey with the Neutralia; I’m a me-
chanic, and I know just where to drop a
spike so that a team of elephants couldn’t

get a single kick out of that wheel,” Flint
explained with a little simple pride.

"My hat’s off to you, Flint! The Neu-
tralia would be thousands of miles away
by this time but for that spike. Put it
aside — it’s going to have a gold setting
when we get back to the good old earth.
Now what about this jump to the vol-
cano. You are quite a scientist too — can
we do it?” queried Burgoyne, knitting his
brows doubtfully.

"I reckon we can chance it anyway.
This Venus planet revolves west to east.
The volcano is due west exactly on our
parallel; Mr. Carscadden took the obser-
vation just yesterday, Venus revolves
about fourteen miles a minute; all we
have to do is to shut out just enough of
her pull to rise above the atmosphere and
wait there while she does her stuff, rolls
round and in less than a minute we shall
be above the volcanic hill. It will be
snappy work, but I reckon we can do it,”
explained Flint, who had taken a great
interest in his master’s experiments.

"A great notion! We’ll chance it. I’ll
work the wheel, and you do the navigat-
ing. Come on, let’s get busy,” replied
Burgoyne, in high spirits at the prospect
of such a rapid transition.

Instantly the rope was severed and the
steel door shut; everything was ready for
the twelve-mile jump.

"It will take us about fifty-three
seconds to do the jump, likely a second
more to rise above the atmosphere, but
as our course in rising and descent will
form segments of converging arcs, we
need not worry about the rise or fall. At
least that’s how I figure it out. Now
keep your eyes glued on me if you please,
Mr. Burgoyne. Are you ready? Right —
off!” snapped Flint as sharply as a vet-
eran sergeant on a parade ground.

In a twinkling Burgoyne had twirled
the wheel and moved the cover so that it
shut off most of the planet’s pull, but not

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

entirely, as Flint had previously advised
him. Instantly the Neutralia was roaring
through the Venezian atmosphere; an
uplifted hand from Flint, and the cover
was moved a trifle backward, and, pull
and repulsion being now almost equal,
the globe hung motionless while the
planet sped round below them.

One quick glance Burgoyne had of a
vast, fire-shot steam-cloud that seemed to
be racing toward them at an appalling
speed; then the hand again went up. A
spoke or two of the wheel was reversed,
and the Neutralia fell Venusward, a
lightning-like return of a spoke, that just
softened the shock of grounding; and
then, as the wheelsman swung the cover
clear above them, they struck the ground
with a great crash that sent both men
sprawling.

16 , A Matter of Minutes Only

B y the chance that governs such
things, and the aid of Flint’s un-
expected skill in navigation, the Neu-
tralia alighted in a shallow depression not
a hundred yards from the tree to which
the now unconscious captive was bound.

In the murky crimson glow that bathed
the scene, they at once perceived that
they had arrived just in the nick of time,
and it was a matter of minutes only be-
fore the fiery lava would brim over the
crest of the hollow it ran in, and in-
evitably overwhelm their captain.

In a rush they severed his bonds, and
carried him, senseless but still breathing,
to the shell. Here with a rope beneath
his arms they hauled him inside the
globe.

"We must get away at once! That
lava stream will be round us in a minute,
and hopelessly jam the cover. Say the
word, Flint!” cried Burgoyne as he leapt
to the levers and closed the door, and in

a twinkling had shut it, and was beside
tlie wheel.

"Right! We must chance where we
land, and make a longer hop this time.
Stand by! Go ahead!”

Again came the sudden shrieking
clamor of their passage through the Ven-
ezian atmosphere, then silence, as the
previous maneuvers were repeated,
though Ae inter\’’als between were a little
longer.

This time more gently, Ae Neutralia
alighted in the forest, where no gleam
from Ae now distant volcano penetrated
the dense lofty growAs Aat surrounded
Aem; but of course Aeir electric equip-
ment rendered Aem indifferent to the
inky darkness.

"Good boy, Flint! You’ve done splen-
didly. Now we can attend to poor Ayl-
mer,” cried Burgoyne as he stepped to
Ae side of Ae unconscious man.

It was some while before Ae scientist
regained consciousness; Ae strain of his
cramped position, and Ae heat from Ae
approaching lava, had greatly weakened
the heart action, and left Aeir mark on
him. However, eventually he came
round, and again Ae light of intelligence
suffused his serious dark eyes. But he
was excessively weak and weary, and
after listening to a few hurried words of
explanation from his friend, whiA he
seemed but partly to comprehend, he
again sank into unconsciousness; Aough
now it was Ae blessed balm of a pro-
found slumber, the slumber of utter
exhaustion. As Aere was noAing further
Aey could do, Burgoyne and Flint di-
vided Ae night into watches, and slept
alternately, as soimdly as Aough they
were safe in Aeir beds in Aeir home
planet, twenty-five million miles distant!

'The full fresh light of new day was
saturating the deep shaft Aat Ae descent
of Ae Neutralia had tom Arough Ae
forest when Gurscadden awoke. But little

WEIRD TALES

of it penetrated into the globe through
the windows. He was greatly refreshed
and had regained full possession of his
mental equipment, and remembered
every incident of the previous day’s hap-
penings. 'Though a little wondering who
had been responsible for the skilful navi-
gation of the globe, yet he had no trouble
in piecing together the line of events that
had ended in his rescue; the brief explan-
ation of Burgoyne affording a basis for
some rapid and accurate guesswork. But
he was puzzled why the light filtering
through the windows should be so faint,
and he could distinguish a muffled queer
humming sound. And gazing attentively
at the windows he perceived that the
light varied a little from time to time,
sometimes darker, then again strangely
lighter. It seemed as though the light
itself was in motion! Then he knew
what had happened, and, a little weakly,
rose to his feet and went to the switch-
board.

"Hugh! Flint! Rouse up!” he called as
the globe was flooded with brilliance.
"The enemy are upon us!”

"What! Kobloth again?” cried Bur-
goyne, leaping to his feet.

"No, I don’t even know if he’s alive.
It’s the centipedes; they’re all over the
Neutralia, trying to force a way in! I
need not say that nothing less than a
high-powered rifle bullet would splinter
those windows.”

"A swarm of them!” exclaimed the
two men, who as yet had no knowledge
of what their captain had suffered. "And
I had dozed at my post!” owned up Bur-
goyne contritely. "Though we did both
finally agree that there was no need for
sentinel duty,” he added in justification.

"A swarm? Yes, there must be mil-
lions of the brutes out there. Listen to
this,” said the scientist. And briefly he
outlined his terrible experiences.

"The scoundrel! We should leave him

for the centipedes to deal with,” cried
Burgoyne savagely. And he related what
had occurred during their captain’s
absence.

"It would be simple justice to leave
him,” agreed Carscadden as he realized
the villainy of the Austrian and the nar-
row escape all three had from a horrible
and hopeless ending. "But we can’t do
it; we are civilized citizens of a great
nation, and we cannot lower ourselves to
his level. You say he is quite insane? We
must have a look at him, and consider
what we shall do with the scoundrel. But
just IcKik at those brutes attacking the
glass, and you will realize what I went
through before the lava came between
us.”

It was, indeed, a strange and horrible
thing they stared at. 'The great horde,
diverted from their original course by the
eruption, had surged through the forest
all night, and reaching the Neutralia
soon after dawn, besieged it. To the
brutes, every living thing was something
to destroy and devour, and sighting the
sleeping men within they savagely sought
to get at tliem. The humming noise was
made by their ceaseless movements, and
the rustling together of their stupendous
myriads. Every minute or two, there
would also resound a loud clicking,
caused by an unusually violent rush of
a score or so at the glass. Probably many
thousands were killed thus, by their own
savagery.

"How would it be to take another hop
to the westward?” asked Flint, who had
an innate loathing of all crawling things.

"Better not,” said the scientist. "It is
dangerous work. Of course it is very for-
tunate that TOu chanced it; but the Neu-
tralia might easily have struck a higher
mountain, or alighted with such force
that it would have been damaged beyond
our present ability to repair it. It is irritat-
ing not to be able to make use of our

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

last day on Venus, but we are quite safe,
and at nightfall will leave this horror
behind us.” He paused and then re-
sumed in a puzzled tone. "But how did
you managed to navigate so well, Flint?
I did not imagine you understood the
working of the Neutralia so nicety.”

"But I’m no navigator,” Flint objected
hastily, "Don’t run away with that
notion. But after our first experience with
this guy Kobloth, it struck me that it
wouldn’t be a bad idea if I knew enough
to take a little spin, just in case of acci-
dents. So I’ve paid particular attention to
the way you fixed things, and taken note
in writing of the course and speed of the
planets, and such-like things I’ve heard
you talk about. But I’m no navigator —
no more than a harbor tugboat skipper
could take a liner across the Pacific.
Reckon it was chance did the most of it,
anyway.”

"Well, we won’t quarrel about it,”
laughed Carscadden. "But I don’t think
it would take you long to get your cap-
tain’s ticket for space-navigating, Flint.”

The day dragged by wearily enough.
The voracious centipedes ceaselessly
swarmed over the globe, darkening the
windows, and keeping up their monoton-
ous droning. 'The three men descended
to the hold and inspected their captive.
He seemed to sleep most of the time, and
when wakened he stared vacantly at them
and broke out into incoherent ram-
blings, in which now and then they could
catch words and sentences indicating that
the wrecked brain was busy with past
and recent experiences. Carscadden, after
a careful inspection, came to the conclu-
sion that the man was really insane; and
seeing that he seemed quite harmless,
and at any rate was securely imprisoned
in the hold, they removed the lashings
from him. Food and water he accepted
as a child might, unquestioning, but with
a healthy appetite. Reprisal and punish-

ment were out of the question, for one
cannot dispense justice on a madman.

Toward dusk, the scientist looked up
from some calculations he had been
going over. "At nine o’clock we will
start,” he said. "We shall be exactly in
a line with the earth, and need anticipate
no difficulty in making the twenty-five
million mile jump of our last journey.”

"Old Broadway will look good to me!”
was Burgoyne’s brief observation.

"I’m not crying — Venus has got my
goat!” muttered Flint, staring in disgust
at the darkened windows.

17. For Ever Through Trackless Space

S HARP at nine o’clock Carscadden gave
the signal, and the great cover slid-
ing over the globe crushed hundreds of
the horrible giant insects in its resistless
sweep. Instantly they rushed upward
through a shrill roaring, and a thrill of
damp choking heat. In another minute
or two they had passed beyond the dense
Venezian atmosphere and out into the
silence and cold of interplanetary space.

The hours passed quickly, but not too
quickly for their impatience; for now all
were filled with a very human longing
for home and security. It had been a
great and wonderful adventure, but they
were glad it was nearly over. Humanity
is not built for a too prolonged absence
from its own species.

Twice a sudden fierce uproar gave evi-
dence that the Neutralia had met one of
the dense swarms of meteors that cease-
lessly swing round our sun. Luckily they
encountered no large fragments, and
were soon through the scurrying vag-
rants.

Half-way across to the eartli, Carscad-
den announced that their speed must be
arrested.

"We have still twelve million miles
to traverse, but our speed is so enormous

WEIRD TALES

that we must from now begin to check it.
Moreover I am not at all certain that
the neutralium metal has not been af-
fected by the intense cold of space; on
our last landing in Venus I fancied that
the Neutralia was a trifle slow in re-
sponding to the repulsive effect. Of
course I may be mistaken, but there is no
harm in being prepared,” announced
Qirscadden gravely.

"And if you are not mistaken, I sup-
pose we stand a chance of being fused to
vapor the moment we enter the earth's
atmosphere. A pleasing prospect!” said
Burgoyne with a wry grimace.

"Probably, but it’s no use crossing
bridges before we come to them. Are
you ready, Hugh? Turn a couple of
spokes and slide the cover down a bit,”
the scientist ordered.

In a little the registers announced that
the slowing effect was in progression,
but not so diminished as their captain
had expected.

"Not enough. Give her another spoke,
Hugh,” said the grave-eyed man at the
registers.

"I fear my suspicion was only too well
founded — the metal has certainly been
affected; it acts, but not so absolutely as
when we started. We must slide the
cover right over.” And now a startled
query had come into the eyes of the men
he addressed.

Half an hour later it was fairly certain
that they would enter the earth’s atmos-
phere at a pace which, though not rapid
enough to fuse the Neutralia, yet must
inevitably entail a catastrophe at landing,
if the excessive heat had not already
destroyed them by that time.

Chronometer in hand, watching the
speed dials, Carscadden relapsed into
silence. His tv'O companions also had
nothing to say, but just stood watching
him and waiting for the world that was
rushing along its orbit to annihilate them.

There was nothing more to do, simply
wait and wonder at the cruel fate that
after so many perils had overtaken them.

"We are about to enter the earth’s at-
mosphere,” said Carscadden quietly, as
he replaced his watch in his pocket, and
a sigh of relief escaped his thin, firm
lips — relief that the suspense was now
over, and in a minute they would know
the worst, or know — nothing!

"Well, we have had a run ” began

Burgoyne, but the sentence was left un-
finished; for at that moment a terrific
rushing clamor filled the globe, and in-
stantly the sky above turned from an inky
black to a glowing ultramarine blue. The
stars vanished, and only the old familiar
sun shone through cerulean heavens.
Then steam clouded every window, rose
from them in little cloudlets, and the
interior was plunged in the fog and sti-
fling heat of a Turkish bath. The Neu-
tralia was falling through the earth’s air
envelope at a pace no human being could
hope to survive at its finish. But for the
immensely thick asbestos lining of the
globe, already the three men above, and
the maniac below, would have had the
life scorched out of them by the heat en-
gendered by the globe’s swift passage.

Likely it was only a matter of seconds
when the roaring came to a finish in a
great concussion, which was immediately
followed by a loud hissing. And the men
who were thrown off their feet, found
themselves plunged in darkness, and felt
a sudden abatement of temperature.

"What’s happened?” shouted Bur-
goyne, and his voice was only just aud-
ible above the insistent hissing.

Carscadden switched on the lights.
The windows looked as though they had
been daubed outside with a dull green
paint.

"That is what I hardly dared hope
for,” said the sdentist, pointing to the
green squares. The hissing was abating

THE VOYAGE OF THE NEUTRALIA

greatly and his voice was quite audible.
"We have fallen into the sea!”

"The sea!” cried his companions to-
gether.

"Yes. Likely we are a thousand feet
deep under it by now. Had it not been
for that bit of good luck we should have
been smashed to splinters. As it is, we
are already rising and will reach the
surface very quickly. Then we must take
one of those flying hops you originated,
Flint, and land somewhere on something
more solid,” said Carscadden jocularly.

Now, that the suspense was over, each
man felt inclined to laugh hilariously,
slap backs, play leap-frog, or any other
boy’s trick, just from the pure exuber-
ance they experienced in the joy of being
still alive, and back on the honest old
earth again.

T he shell, having the cover still be-
neath it, shot buoyantly out of the
water and soared high in the air, as
tliough minded to be off on another
journey; for though affected by the in-
tense cold of its stupendous voyage, yet
the metal, save at the most excessive
speeds, was still practically non-gravita-
tional.

By skilful maneuvering it was brought
to a halt for a few minutes, and hung
motionless in space while the earth re-
volved and slid away beneath them. In
less than five minutes land appeared be-
low, and in another minute the Neutralia
was resting safely on the topmost slope
of a well-wooded hill.

The great adventure was over, and the
voyagers, sound in wind and limb, and
rich in experiences such as no other hu-
man beings had ever experienced, had
descended from the great globe and were
rapturously gazing at a scene of tropic
vegetation that yet seemed very dear and
home-like to tliem.

Burgoyne, who had lived for a little

in Ceylon, soon identified the hill upon
which they had alighted as the famous
Adam’s Peak, not far from the port of
Columbo.

"We must seek help to convey our col-
lections and specimens to safety. But I
think it would be wise to first remove all
the stuff from the Neutralia; then we can
close the door and keep out prying na-
tives, who likely would destroy and steal
a good deal of the movable gearings.
For the time I have had enough of
space-traveling — what do you say, Hugh?
Shall we leave tlie Neutralia to her own
devices for a little?” asked Carscadden.

"Same here! I’ve had more than
enough of space-traveling. But what
about Kobloth?” Burgoyne asked.

"Bring him out, he must go with us.
We can decide later what to do with him.
Perhaps better let him go; when our story
is knovra, the authorities can deal with
him if they wish. You see he has not
actually killed anyone, nor has he stolen
anything; besides, the man is insane,”
said his friend, indifferently. What mat-
tered now? ’They were safe and sound
and the voyage had been successful be-
yond his wildest dreams.

So Kobloth was landed; looking rather
shaken and amazed, but still preserving
silence, the silence that later had suc-
ceeded his ramblings. But for this he ap-
peared almost normal, rather haggard
and morose-looking, yet calm and harm-
less enough.

He expressed no astonishment at their
/apid passage, made no comment on its
violent ending, and appeared indifferent
to where they had alighted. He simply
stood silently and moodily watching the
process of unloading. Obviously the
man’s mind was entirely vacant.

The work was finished and the toilers
sat down to a well-earned meal, but he
refused all offers of food and stalked
gloomily away in the shade cast bv a

WEIRD TALES

large tree. The three friends were seated
in the shadow at the rear of the globe.

They were all laughing and conversing
happily, when Burgoyne, whose ears
were the quickest, leapt to his feet.

"Did you hear that! He’s back in the
Neutralia!” and he rushed round the
globe to the doorway.

True enough he was in the Neutralia,
had climbed noiselessly up the rope lad-
der, pullled it inside, and shut the door.
This last action was the cause of the
sound that had caught Burgoyne’s hear-
ing.

As they stood helplessly under the shut
door, the great cover began to turn, com-
ing over noiselessly and resistlessly.

As the huge globe rose from the
ground, which it did before the cover had
entirely gone round the lower half, and
the ea^’s pull was not quite cut off, the
door, some tv'elve feet above them, was
opened, and Kobloth appeared in the

opening. At that second the Neutralia
suddenly leapt upward and, as it went,
they could see he was speaking, shouting
to them, but his words came in a torrent
of meaningless sounds, the unintelligble
ravings of a madman, muffled by the dis-
tance. The globe gathered way; evidently
the turning-gear left unlocked was per-
mitting the cover to slide gradually over,
and his voice rose to a scream of insane
passion. Then there came a shrill hissing
that rapidly subsided, and the Neutralia
had vanished.

"The door was open!” exclaimed Bur-
goyne.

"Yes. By now he will be a block of
ice out in the silence and blackness of
space!” said Carscadden gravely. "The
Neutralia has commenced her last awful
journey; and it is quite possible that ten
thousand years from this hour, Armand
Kobloth will still be standing in that
doorway on his eternal voyage through
space.”

[THE END]

Dream

By EMIL PETAJA

Exalted, they whose far-off visions see
In memory’s mist a land of whispered dreams
Where beings god-like move in shadowed schemes,
A silver city by a sapphire sea.

They work their spells, and plan when they will be
Among the mystic dancers, under beams
Of ciy’stal crescent moons w’hose radiance seems
A light of necromantic sorcery.

I gaze enchanted w'hile they pass me by;

Ascend the hill w'here crumbling ruins lie —

An eery sea-deep sound rings out the moor;

'They pause before a rock w'hich hides a door:

One fumbles in his scarlet cloak. I see

His slender fingers move — he turns a key. . . .

W. T.-6

Was Green

By JOHN RAWSON SPEER

A brief weird story by the author of '^Symphony of the Damned"
and "The Carnal God"

S UDDEN madness at seventy miles
an hour! Alone in the cab of a lo-
comotive with a madman. Will
Bryant, the engineer of the Fire Flyer,
was insane. But why?

What had suddenly turned this man I
had worked with for over six years,
and had known as a quiet, steady-going
person, into the raving madman I now
saw before me?

His eyes violent, his face contorted
with fear, he was cowering there in the
cab, pleading with some invisible pres-
ence. For a paralyzing instant I felt that
presence. But tliere was no time to lose.
As the fireman of tlie Fire Flyer, I would
have to assume Will’s responsibility.
There was no time to ask questions. 1
had to get to the throttle of that locomo-
tive.

As I rushed to him from my side of
the cab, he suddenly seized a shovel and
struck me over the head. Blood trickled
into my eyes, blurring my vision, and
then I slipped away into unconsciousness
with only a fading but horrible picture of
Will Bryant, insane.

What happened after that in the cab
of that engine, pulling a train-load of
passengers seven^ miles an hour, terri-
fies me constantly.

When I regained my senses after the
blow Will had given me, I found him
staring at the steam gage, and gibbering
like an idiot. The air was set on the
brakes, and the Flyer was pulled in
alongside the main track, waiting for
Number 93 to pass her.

W. T.— 7

I must have been unconscious for fully
fifteen minutes. During that time the
Fire Flyer had thundered on her way
with no one at the throttle — unless it
was, as Will Biy'ant swears, the spirit of
Nat Carson. Nat Carson had been dead
for ten years!

There was nothing to do but turn Will
over to the authorities, who committed
him to an asylum.

Although I had been his closest friend,
there were things in his life which he
had never mentioned, even to me. The
doctors, after much deliberation, decided
remorse, coupled with a deep sense of
guilt, had caused Will to have this in-
tense belief in the return of the dead. I
followed their theories with interest, and
for some time believed that he would
eventually realize that only his worry-
ridden mind had produced the sight he
claimed he saw in the cab that night.

But I know now that Will Bryant will
never recover. The last visit I had with
him made me see how hopeless it was.
Some of the fear that comes to lock him
in delirious madness now attaches itself
to me.

I can still see him, the way he looked
that last day I talked to him in Terring-
ton Asylum; his q^es dull, a hopeless sor-
row showing from within them as he
said:

"Steve, I am sane, as sane as any man,
but I can never take my place in normal
society again. Don’t you think I have
tried to convince myself that there was
nothing unnatural about that night? I’ve

WEIRD TALES

gone over every detail of the affair, but
the result is always the same: Nat Gir-
son, dead though he may have been, sat
in the cab of our engine; he pulled that
train, and I know what he intended to do.
I know, Steve! He was there. I saw him,
I tell you. I did! I did!”

"Will, please!” I gripped his shaking
hands and held them tightly. "Don’t
talk or think about it if it disturbs you.
I only want to help you. I want to see
you well again so that you can leave this
place.”

Will shook his head sadly.

"I don’t want to leave here now, Steve.
I feel safer here where they can watdi
me at night. I have a room here, Steve,
where there are no train whistles blasting
in my ears.

"Steve, I’m going to tell you every-
thing, just as I see it. They call me crazy,
but that is because they have no other
term for my affliction. It is not really in-
sanity; 'haunted' is the word.

“■^7" ou remember hearing about the

-I train wreck I was in ten years ago?
As you know, Nat Girson was the engi-
neer who allowed his train tp run by a
signal supposed to be set against him. I
was firing for him then. See these scars
on my arms — all from that wreck. We
crashed through the rear of a freight
train, plowed through a chain of box-cars
as if they had been mere cigar boxes.
B/>th of us missed death for no other
reason than that it wasn’t our time to go.

"At the Board of Investigation, I told
them what I believed I should. I told them
that Nat had been drinking a little. He
did take chances, unforgivable chances
like that. I used to warn him that some
day he would be caught. Nat could be
drunk and still not show it. Of course
the fact that I was in love with his girl
and had never really liked him had some-
thing to do with my testimony.

"At the trial he claimed he saw the
signal as green. He swore tlie red signal
set against us was green, and that I was
a liar. 'You’re sending me to hell!’ he
cried. But I stuck to my testimony.

"You know the rest; two weeks later
Nat Carson killed himself. I tried to be-
lieve like all the others that he had done it
because he realized the crime he had com-
mitted in risking the lives of all those
passengers.

"The years went on. I was promoted
to engineer, a regular 'hog head’ with my
own train to pull. I seldom thought of
Nat any more; only when stories of that
wreck were recalled would I think of
him. That was only natural.

"Not until one night in the yards,
years later, did I come face to face with
what has doomed me. I had checked my
engine over to the round-house hostler
and was walking across to the dispatch-
er’s shack. The steam and smoke from
the trains was all mixed up with the fog
that was settling down over the yards.
Brakemen’s lanterns were bobbing in and
out among the cars. You know how it
is on foggy nights in the yards. I wasn’t
paying much attention to anything when,
out of that fog, a face leered at me, then
vanished. It was quick, so quick that, al-
though I was fri^tcned, I did not be-
lieve I had actually seen it. Surely I had
only imagined that I saw Nat Carson.

" 'What am I thinking about?’ I asked
myself; even laughed a little. 'Must be
seeing ghosts,’ I said, and went on into
the dispatcher’s office.

"I didn’t think any more about it.
Tliat’s how much it meant to me then.
People are often imagining that they see
faces of those who are dead. They’re like
flashes, quick pictures from the subcon-
scious mind.

"Two nights later, at the other end of
the run, I saw a figure walking toward
me. I noticed it particularly because it

THE LIGHT WAS GREEN

seemed inteit upon walking right
through me. It w'as under a street lamp
on the corner near my home. This time
it did not disappear, and there was no
doubt in my mind as to who it was. He
stood there sneering at me, Steve! I
couldn’t move or talk as he eyed me with
contempt, moved around me, and finally
walked on down the street.

"All that night I tried to tell myself
that it was only my imagination playing
tricks. But why should it?

"For weeks I would see Nat Carson,
always at night, usually in the yards or
around my home. It was then that I be-
gan thinking of tlie testimony I had given
at the Board of Investigation.

"That Nat Carson was trying to com-
municate with me from beyond the bor-
ders of this life seemed the only conclu-
sion to draw. ITiat he was accusing me
of his death, there was no doubt.

"The last night before the thing really
happened, I was looking at a green
switch-lantern. A voice whispered in my
ear; 'It’s green! Green like the night
we crashed that freight. Green, I tell
you!’

"I turned and saw Nat Carson’s face.
I called out to him, but he turned and
ran. From then on I could feel his pres-
ence all around me.

"You remember how you looked at me
when I climbed into the cab that last
night I took the run, Steve? I felt that
somewhere on that train Nat Carson was
hiding, waiting to confront me. Just be-
fore we pulled out I was on tlie verge of
getting out of the cab and leaving the
train.

" 'A-b-o-a-r-d!’ I heard the conductor
drawl. From force of habit, I started my
train.

“Olow at first (I never jerked the
*3 Flyer, you know that), easy, evenly
we started. I dreaded to see the lights
from the station moving by. Gradually
faster, yard lights, crossings, twinkling
stars — green signals — open country! 'The
Fire Flyer was on its way.

"’The headlight’s gleaming spear of
silver shot through the darkness; wheels
clicked over track joints; a crossing whis-
tled by. She was rolling smoothly, pow-
erfully on.

" 'Green!’ I called to you from my
side of the cab when I saw the signal.

" 'Green!’ you answered back to me
when you saw it. And from somewhere
I heard that damned voice: 'It’s green,
green like that night we crashed into that
freight!'

"I tried to control myself, tried to
throw out the tlioughts that were crowd-
ing into my brain. But as we rolled
along, I found myself thinking; 'This
is like the night we went tlirough those
box-cars!’

"Again I felt that cold breath upon my
neck, eyes peering into my back. I
turned, but no one was there — only the
swaying coaches, and you down on the
bridge tending your fire.

"Pulling myself togetlier again, I
peered straight ahead at the glistening
track. Another green signal! 'Nat! Nat!’
Each clack of steel upon steel seemed to
sing out, 'Nat! Nat!’

"Again that voice, the feeling of his
presence behind me. I wanted to cry out,
to stop the train, and search for that
voice. Conscience? I tried to tell myself
that it should not bother me. Why didn’t
he leave me alone to run my train? I
wasn’t fit to highball a fast locomotive
over the road with such voices, such icy
brcatlw upon my back.

"Gladly I welcomed the lights of a

100

WEIRD TALES

station, the first station on the run. I
wanted to climb down out of the cab and
remain there. Something horrible, I
knew, lay ahead of me on that lone
stretch of track. It was impossible to
confess to you how I felt. Words would
not come to me, Steve.

"Miles yet ahead, miles of torture.
Would daylight never come? Perhaps
that might drive away the awful fear.

"Speeding again in the country, only
the lights from the interlocker towers
five miles apart, only an occasional farm-
house with a lonely lamp lit. Shadows
on the hills, creeping shadows, and that
chilling breath, that voice: 'Green! It
was green

"This time the voice seemed louder,
much more real and certain. Only by
sheer force of mind could I keep my
back turned to it.

"It came again! I had to look. A
grim, awful-looking face was staring at
me from the tender. I swear it was Nat
Carson, and he spoke to me. Somehow
I mumbled the words: 'Nat, where in
God’s name did you come from?’

" 'From the blinds maybe,’ he laughed.
'Maybe I been ridin’ ’em all night waitin’
for this little stretch of track. Ten years
since we rode side by side in the cab of
an engine, ain’t it? Ten years ago to-
night we were ridin’ along this same old
road, you an’ me. Only difference was
that I was settin’ at the throttle and you
was tossin’ coal into the belly of the old
hog.

" 'Watchin’ your signals, pal? Crack
train you’re pullin’ now. How’s it feel to
be settin’ there watchin’ the drivers go
up and down?’

"He moved toward me. I screamed
because I couldn’t help it. I wanted to
beat out the sight of that leering face. It
must have been at that time that I struck
you with the shovel, Steve, although I do

not remember that. All I know is that
Nat Carson, who was dead, who had
been dead all those years, was now climb-
ing onto my seat in the cab. Nothing I
could do would make him go away.

"I saw him climb up onto the seat and
take hold of the throttle. He said, Tm
pullin’ this train tonight. She’s my train
again!’

"I tried to push him away. 'Nat,
you’re crazy!’ I cried.

" 'Crazy!’ He laughed as his fingers
pulled the throttle out, and the locomo-
tive bellowed with the force of steam
driving its wheels on to greater speed.

" 'Yes, crazy! I’ve been crazy ever
since that night when I saw the signal
green. Then those cars . . . remember
how we piled into ’em? Remember how
the old 789 looked when she bit through
that "crumm,” plowed off the track, and
dug her pilot into the dirt? Remember!’

" 'Nat, watch those signals!’ I begged.
'Let me up there, Nat. Take your pun-
ishment out on me, but don’t risk the
lives of others.’

"The Flyer hit a sharp curve, bounced
uncertainly from side to side a moment,
then fled madly down the track.

" 'Ten years ago,’ Nat began slowly,
'ten years ago we both saw that signal
green. But you lied! You lied to make
me lose my job, to lose Lucille because
you wanted her, and because you hated
me. You told them about my drinking.
In every way you put the blame of that
wreck upon my soul. I thought I could
escape it when I sought death, but it was
still there. And now you’re going to pay
for every moment of doubt and torture.
Tonight we celebrate the tenth anniver-
sary of that wreck!’

" "What are you going to do?’ I asked
hoarsely.

“ 'What am I going to do? He gave

THE LIGHT WAS GREEN

101

the throttle another pull. 'I’m going to
pull the Flyer tonight. Somewhere along
this road there’s a red signal set against
us, and we’re going by it, seventy miles
an hour we’re going by it!’

" 'No, Nat! No! You can’t do this!’

" 'Seventy, eighty miles an hour we’re
going by it,’ he chanted. 'And then, if
you live, try to tell the Board of Investi-
gation why you went by that danger sig-
nal. Try to tell them that a man who has
been dead for ten years forced you to
run by that signal. Listen to them laugh
as you tell your crazy story. See the doubt
on their faces as I saw it when I tried to
tell them the signal was green.’

"Giving the throttle one final jerk, he
sent the locomotive roaring like some
wounded animal charging blindly to its
own destruction.

"He sang out: 'The Flyer to Hell! No
signals — clear track! Red means green,
and green means nothing. A dead man
at the throttle, pulling the fastest train
that ever polished steel. We’re on our
way. We’re highballing it to hell!’

"On we roared, with all those passen-
gers slumbering in the Pullmans or chat-
ting and talking. All of them innocently
riding behind an engine headed for death
— pulled by death itself!

"I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I
don’t know how long I stood there or
what went on after that. The next tiling
I remember was hearing the scream of
the whistle, the sound of the air being
set on the brakes, the flanges biting into
the wheels, and the train groaning to a
stop.

"When I looked we were pulled onto
a siding at Elva. Far ahead on the track
beside us I could hear a train coming at
full speed. It was Number 93. Before
we left the last station there had been no
orders to pull onto the siding to let 93
go by.

"All that time, Steve, our train had
been out of our hands. You were uncon-
scious; I was helpless. Someone pulled
that train onto the siding! Who, Steve,
who?”

W ILL was shaking now. Terror, re-
lived, had made him a trembling,
sobbing wreck.

"But, Will, if the spirit of Nat Carson
intended to destroy that train, why did
we find it safely side-tracked to permit
another train to pass us as per changed-
schedule?” I tried ta reason with him,
for my sake as well as his own, for now
even I felt that perhaps it was true.

'"rhere is only one answer,” Will re-
plied brokenly. "Nat Carson stopped at
the last station before Elva and received
orders side-tracking us. No matter what
revenge he had planned for me, some-
thing would not let him kill the others.
He took that train onto the siding, left
it standing there, and went away; his
revenge was realized. Just as I had sent
him for ever from the cab of an engine,
so he has sent me.

"Nat Carson pulled that train. Nat
Carson’s dead but he pulled tliat train.
He still comes back to remind me that
I sent him to hell! He’ll come tonight,
and tomorrow night, and every night of
my life. Oh, God, help me!”

Will broke into uncontrollable sob-
bing. The attendants were rushing to
him. Nothing I could say would calm
him.

"Nat Carson’s dead! I sent him to
hell. He pulled that train. He came badk
to pull that train. Nat Carson returned
from the dead!”

As I started to go, a thought came to
me; a brilliant thought it seemed at the
time. Those orders, received at the last
station before the side-track at Elva, had
to be signed! Will must have signed

102

WEIRD TALES

them. Surely he had only gone Into a
trance of terror and imagined all he told
me. If those orders were signed with
Will’s name they would prove every-
thing to him. I would be able to recog-
nize his signature no matter how shaken
he might have been when he signed it.

I hurried to the station dispatcher, and,
running through his orders, I found the
date of Will’s last run.

My heart stopped, then began beating
wildly.

The signature on those orders was Nat
Carson’s!

of Bones

By DAVID H. KELLER

What weird tragedy took place in that African spot where the
bones of a murdered people were scattered?

OU were kind to me in Eng-
land,” said the Zulu.

I looked at him, and tried to
remember, but I could not drag the past
out of the subconscious. Not wishing to
offend him, I simply said,

"It is nice to know that you have some
reason to remember me.”

He smiled.

"After all, you do not remember. We
were in the same classes at Oxford. All
the men there were courteous to me, but
they never accepted me as their social
equal. You had me in to tea several
afternoons. We talked about psychology.
You were majoring in it, and I told you
some things about my people.”

"I remember now!” I replied, rather
sharply. "In fact, I wonder why I did not
recognize you in the first place. But it
was a long time ago, over thirty years.
We were young then, and — now? You
look young, but I know that I am nearly
sixty. Yet we were interested in the same
thing at that time, and I saw no real
reason for not accepting you as, well, as

a brother; because, after all, there was
something of kin between us. Strange
that we meet after all those silent years;
meet in Africa!”

"Hunting?”

"I suppose you might call it that.”

"But you have not killed anything. I
have been watching you for five days.
Game all around you, and you do not
kill.”

"No. There has been enough killing.
I carry a gim for protection in emer-
gencies, but I do not kill, except when I
have to.”

"I remember. You used to think that
animals had rights and souls. You even
thought that they might live on after the
first death.”

"Yes,” I said, laughing, "but I never
have proved it, and I have not talked
about that idea for a great many years.
My close friends started to worry about
me — thought I was insane. Are you
hunting?”

"Yes; but I also hunt without a gun.”

VALLEY OF BONES

103

"You don’t mean you use a spear?” I
asked, curiously.

"At times; when I need food, but on
this trip I am going to use something
older than a spear. In fact, I am going
to be, like you, simply an observer, of
life, and death.”

W E CAMPED together that night. He
was alone, and I had only two
porters. Before supper I suggested that
we dress for the occasion.

"Two Oxford men,” I remarked. "We
should not omit the conventions of polite
society. I came from Idaho, you from
Africa. For the evening let us forget
our origins and remember our cultural
education.”

Rather to my surprize he agreed. So,
we dined according to the best traditions
of Oxford. It was moonlight when we
finished, and I asked him to share the
camp with me that night. We even sat
on camp chairs near the fire. He was
silent. I tried to make conversation. At
last he seemed to wake from his dreams.

"You thought animals lived after
death?”

"Yes.”

"Do men?”

"Perhaps.”

"Should you like to be sure?”
"Delighted! I should be the first man
to know it.”

"Not the first. My ancestors have al-
ways known it. Often they sleep for
years, perhaps for centuries. But, when
they wish to, they awake and live again
till their work is done. Then they sleep
again.”

"Tradition? Folk-lore?” I asked.
"Fact.”

"Can you show me?”

"Yes. Years ago you gave me cups of
tea, little cakes and some hours of your

time. You were kind to me. I said to
myself tliat some day I would repay you.
Will you leave your camp and porters
here and come with me?”

"Yes.”

"We will start at once.”

"Tonight?”

"Yes. It is necessary. First, I will take
off these clothes. For supper I was will-
ing to wear them. Now, I am going
back.”

Half an hour later we left the camp,
and started over the veldt. Fortunately,
it was moonlight, almost as light as day.

For three days and nights we walked,
with little talking. Every hour seemed
to increase the moodiness of my com-
panion.

On the evening of the third day we
came to a hill. Below us was a little
cup-shaped valley.

"This is the end,” the Zulu said, and
sat down on a stone.

I was glad to follow him. Tough as I
was, the trip had taxed my endurance.
For two hours we rested. Then the
moon started to shine.

"Now, I will talk,” said the dark man.

"I am listening,” I replied, and took a
deep sigh.

"The story starts when I was a boy of
twelve,” he said. "I was tlie son of the
cliief of a Zulu tribe. It was just a little
tribe, not more than a hundred warriors,
but we were rather rich. We kept our
isolation, refused to become involved in
the Zulu wars with the white people. Be-
cause of this reservation, we lived on.
The world did not know there was such
a tribe.

"One day a hunter came and found us.
He said that we were friends. To show
that he meant that, he said he would give
us a feast. My father believed his words.
All of our warriors believed him, but

104

WEffiD TALES

there was one old man who doubted. He
told me to go hunting and not to come
back for three days. I did as he told me,
and, when I returned, I found all of my
people dead. Down in that valley that
lies before us they were on the rocks,
dead. All of them: the warriors, the
women and the little ones. But the hunt-
er was gone, and he had taken with him
all of our wealth: the gold bracelets, the
ornaments of the women, the things of
gold that we had for many generations.”

"Poison?” I asked.

"Yes. He fed them and killed them.”

"But the old man who warned you?
He must have known something.”

"Perhaps, but we are fatalists. No
doubt he thought that it had to happen,
because it had to happen. I do not know.
He was a very old and very wise man. I
sat here on this very rock for two days,
and then I left. After that I met another
hunter. He liked me. We lived together.
He took me to England. He educated me.
When he died, he made me his heir. But
I came back to Africa.”

"And you made no effort to find the
man who had killed your people?”

"Yes. I hunted him, but not with a
gun. I simply kept him under observa-
tion.”

"I guess it must have been the Oxford
influence!”

"No. Not that. But I had an idea
that when the time came my people
would act.”

"But you said tliat they were all dead?”

"Yes. They were dead. I have walked
among them, year after year, and I could
take you down there now and show you
the tones. Some of the bones are still
together; others have been torn apart by
animals. But the tones are there. See
that little fire over there? That is the
campfire of the hunter. He has come

back, and perhaps my people knew it. I
knew that he intended to.”

"It is a small fire.”

"That is because he is alone. He could
not hire any native to come with him, but
he wanted to come; so, he came alone;
with a wagon and foiur oxen. He was
after something.”

"But you said that he took all the
gold!”

"Yes, but that is spent. He sold
many of the ornaments to museums. 1
have seen them. I even bought some of
the duplicates. Now, he has learned that
he left part of the riches behind him.
The war-axes, and spears. He can sell
them to the museums. Some are very old.
So, he decided to come back and take the
last of our treasures.”

"In a way, he must be a brave man.”

"Yes, but only through ignorance. He
thinks that my people are dead, just so
many bones. So, he camps among them,
and tomorrow he will search among those
tones for things that he can sell. At
least, he thinks he can. Perhaps my peo-
ple have other thoughts. That is why I
brought you with me. Tonight I want to
show you something. I want to pay you
for being kind to me.”

"Are you going to kill him?”

"No. I am going to sit here in the
moonlight witli you, and help you watch.”

"It is full moon.”

"Yes. We can see. It is not far to his
camp; so, we can hear.”

1 LOOKED at my watch. It was only a
little after nine. Tired as I was, I
knew that I could not sleep. The Zulu
sat motionless, his eyes shut. At ten I
touched him.

"Do you know what is going to hap-
pen?” I asked.

"I know what should happen, but I am
uncertain. You see, there are two sets of

VALLEY OF BONES

105

emotions tearing at each other inside me.
My Oxford education tells me that the
tiling is impossible and my inherited
memories tell me that it has to happen.
So, I am going to sit here. The old man
who saved my life was a very wise man.
He is down there, and, perhaps, he knows
better than you or I.”

Eleven o’clock came and then, finally,
a quarter of twelve.

"The cattle are restless,” said the Zulu,
softly. "They feel something that the
sleeping man cannot feel. I think that
they will run away. It would be best.
They have done nothing for which they
should be punished.”

During the next five minutes the four
oxen broke. We could see them gallop-
ing across the rocks. The fire started to
bum brighter, and near it we could see
a man standing.

"He heard his cattle and awoke,” com-
mented my friend. "It is good that he is
awake.”

"'There are white things moving down
there!” I whispered sharply. "They all
seem to be moving toward the fire.”

"Yes. We see them. Now the hunter
sees them. We had better flatten our-
selves against the rock. He will start
shooting very soon. I do not want you
to be hurt.”

Then those white things started to run
toward the fire, and we heard the sharp
explosion of a magazine rifle, followed
by tlie staccato of two automatic revol-
vers. After that, the gun-fire ceased, and
we heard the shrieks of a man, afraid and
dying. Then came silence, and the fire
was out.

"It is over!” cried the Zulu. "Now,
you go to sleep, and in the morning we
will see what happened to the hunter.”

I tried to sleep, but I could not. Even
with my eyes shut I could still see those
white-lined things running toward the
hunter and the fire.

Morning came at last. I turned to the
Zulu. He sat there, eyes open, but, seem-
ingly, in a dream, I shook him by the
shoulder.

"The day has cornel” I said.

"I know it,” he replied. "Shall we go
down into the valley.^”

We walked down to the bottom of the
cup, toward the camp of the hunter.
While still a hundred yards away I saw a
little hill of bones. When we came near-
er, we saw that the camp, the wagon and
the dead fire were covered with bones,
and with the bones there were spears and
battle-axes, sticking here and there among
the long and rounded and whitened ivory.

"The Zulu turned to me and said,

"You are a white man and the hunter
was a white man. 'The traditions of your
race should be remembered. Will you
bury him? You will find him at the bot-
tom of the bones. His skull is crushed
with battle-axes; his body is pierced with
a hundred lances. In his heart there is a
dagger, and the handle is still held by
the white hand of my father. Will you
go and throw the bones to this side and
that and bury your white man?"

"How do you know?” I asked, almost
hysterically,

"I was there last night. I saw the
hunter killed by my family, by my tribe.
I sat by you while the killing was on, but
my spirit was with my own people. It
seems that I remember seeing my father
bury his dagger.”

"The hunter has dug his own grave,
and your people have raised a monument
above him!” I cried.

"Go back to the world and tell them
what you saw.”

"Never! I saw it happen, and you
saw it happen, and we Imow, but the
world would never believe.”

"Oxford is, after all, very ignorant,”
replied the Zulu.

VheGT

c/ hird Interne

By IDWAL JONES

'A brief tale of a surgical horror in the Arctic wastes of
northern Russia

OCTOR ALEXIS GARSHIN
poured himself a glass of wine,
sank deep into his leathern arm-
chair, and watched the hearth-flames
through the haze of an excellent cigar.
Outside, the wind howled morosely like
a thief. A blizzard had come up from
the timdra, and it was plastering the win-
dows with gobbets of snow. Certainly,
Yarmolinsk Prison, near the Arctic line,
was the most desolate the little Govern-
ment inspector had yet visited. A man
could very well go mad in the solitude.
But its chief. Doctor Melchior Pashev,
found it a heaven; nobody to trouble him,
all the time he wanted to carry on his
researches in biology, a fair salary, and
little to do; for the prison and its hospital
rarely held more than a dozen souls, be-
yond the staff of five. Garshin, a neurolo-
gist himself, admired him greatly.

Pashev had just gone out, to visit a
dying trapper up the river a way, excus-
ing himself for leaving his guest so hast-
ily, but he would return in an hour, and
dinner would keep. A bleak night, and
Garshin shuddered at the idea of facing
that howling wind, with snow in his
teeth. Himself, he rather loved comfort.
But a restful hour would do him good,
and there was nobody afoot in this wing
of the prison.

The door opened. A young man
entered — a pallid, tousle-haired young
man, with the burning eyes of a fanatic.
A theological student, Garshin thought.

"Good evening, sir,” said Garshin.

106

"Doctor Pashev has gone out for an
hour.”

"He is gone for ever,” said the young
man, closing the door. "He is never
coming back.”

"Indeed?” queried Garshin. "I might
even say, you surprize me.”

"Now is my opportunity to give word
to humanity, to the outside world, from
which I have been a prisoner for two
years,” began the young man, drawing
up a chair and fixing his eyes on Garshin.
"Listen to me;

“ T AM the third interne. There were two,
-i- and the woman, Katerina Ivanovna.
We came here from the University of
Astrakhan, where a small band of us had
devoted ourselves to the study of the
brain and the nervous system. Our God
was the great Pavlov, promulgator of the
theory of the conditioned reflex. He re-
ceived us once, and we stayed with him
a month. Then we left, because we had
discovered a far greater scientific man
than he — Doctor Melchior Pashev, the
brilliant worker in neurology.

"You probably know nothing about
him, for you must be an engineer. I can
see that, because your face is not hard.
Sir, with all due respect to you, you are
an infant in learning compared to Pashev.
He is as aloof as an icy summit of the
Alps; he dwells in the realm of pure
brain; human beings are nothing to him
but matter to dissect. He would im-
molate his own mother on the altar of
science. But he is a master. Pavlov, Ein-

THE THIRD INTERNE

107

stein, Metchnikoff — not one of these is
worthy to latch his shoes or fetdi in his
shaving-water.

"We read at Astrakhan his report on
the spinal accessory nerve, proving that it
not only controls the motor fibers of the
larynx but some of the fibers of the heart
as well. This is only a trifle in the vast
researches of the man, who became at
once the most renowned thinker in the
world.

"Pavlov’s experiments on dogs were
child’s play, sir. Pashev began where Pav-
lov left off, and went to an astronomical
height beyond him. He cut off the head
of a mastiff, and kept it alive, function-
ing beautifully, for three years. It
barked, drank water, blinked its eyes with
affection, and showed all the normal re-
actions of a canine, save that it had no
body.

"Our enthusiasm when we read of this
knew no bounds. It made us delirious
with admiration. Here was a genius on
the track of the larger synthesis, who
would crack open the last secrets of life,
make himself the mightiest genius that
ever was bom. We would go to him
and beg him to take us on as his ap-
prentices. The two friends, Benno and
Nicolai Suvorin, my fiancee, who was
Katerina Ivanovna, and myself.

"So we pooled our funds, borrowed
money right and left and came here to
Yarmolinsk, half starved, weary and
more dead than alive, and he took us in.
An epidemic of bubonic plague had deci-
mated the province, all the nurses and
internes in this hospital had died, and so
had Doctor Plotkin, Pashev’s assistant.
He died right in the chair you are sitting
in. Don’t start, sir. It all happened three
years ago.

"We began working. We tended the
sick, swept the wards, buried the dead,
did all the menial work that came to

hand; and at night studied in the dissect-
ing-room, working with the great man
himself. It was Katerina Ivanovna, with
whom I was in love, and I who worked
out with him the theory, first proposed
by the learned Bengali, Professor Gobind
Lai, that the ganglia send out their own
impulses.

"I know I am obscure, sir, but you will
never know how indefatigably we toiled,
like slaves, devotedly, eager to serve the
man we idolized, feeling rewarded
enough that he tolerated us about him.

"But Katerina was devoted to me, also.
We had our plans. After two years we
were to go to Moscow and start up in
practise as specialists on the brain. Re-
nown and fortune would be ours. I
would be professor at Moscow Uni-
versity, Katerina my asistant, and we
would care for nothing but each other,
our science and music. Katerina was a
fine pianist, and kept her skill fresh,
practising an hour a day before she went
to her routine in the ward, which was as
early as five in the morning.

"We mastered that dog’s head. Pashev
had now gone beyond that, and was
having success in keeping alive the head
of a chimpanzee. His device was most
ingenious. The head was mounted on a
glass base. The facial, auditory, ocul-
motor nerves — all the nerves of the head
were given stimuli and nourishment by a
fine series of magnetic networks, termi-
nating in a cell-box. The circulatory
system was kept going by a delicate
motor and pump. And to crown all,
there was Pashev’s masterpiece, a chain
of ganglia, made of rubber and platinum,
which took the place of the spinal cord.

"’That chimpanzee’s head roared,
opened its mouth, blinked at the light,
w'inced at a mirror flash or the prick of
a pin. It was as alive as mine. Nicolai
and Benno, bereft of all interest in life

108

WEIRD TALES

save this tremendous achievement, wor-
shipped Pashev more than ever. They
bowed to him, shrinking in awe. It went
far beyond idolatry.

"One day they came to him and
pleaded. 'You cannot find out by the
head of an anthropoid ape what the
conscious brain is doing. If it were a
man’s head, it could talk back to you.
Think of the service such a head would
do for pure science!’

" ‘Well?’ said Pashev.

" 'We offer ourselves to you for ex-
perimentation.’

mearit it. Even Pashev was

A moved, touched almost tc tears of
joy at the offer. He tried to dissuade
them, spoke to them for nearly five
minutes. But they were insistent. They
had no relatives, no ties of any kind, no
love for anything but science. So Pashev
agreed. The decapitation was done in the
operating-room. The heads were imme-
diately removed to glass bases, the sev-
ered edges cauterized, and the wires and
arterial tubes and ganglia fibers, already
prepared, were attached.

"Where was I? Sir, I fell ill of a brain
fever and was confined for three weeks.
The horror of it was too much for me.
That was my way of escape, swooning
to the floor when I learned Pashev had
agreed to do this favor for Nicolai and
Benno, my friends.

"I recovered, but it was weeks and
weeks before I was myself, and I had
fears that I should go mad. Insanity has
long been a matter of interest to me, sir.
But, as I said, my health and mental
poise returned, with reason unshaken.

"What hurt me was the horror, the
contempt with which Katerina now
viewed me. She regarded me as a ren-
egade to science, a coward, a pitiful
wretch, unfit to love. It was another

blow to me, but you never know the
depth of a woman’s forgiveness, and in
time she loved me again.

"So we had rather a happy life, some-
times radiantly happy, especially when
of a winter evening — the nights are long
here at Yarmolinsk, sir — she would play
on the piano for us, a little Schubert or
a folk-song of our Astrakhan land.
Pashev had a vulnerable spot in his
armor; he was susceptible to the charms
of music, and he would listen to Katerina
play or sing, listen to her by the hour,
elbows on his knee, his eyes fixed on her
lovely face. I believe, sir, that all scien-
tific men should cultivate one of the arts,
else their imagination becomes atrophied.
Darwin, to the end of his days, never
ceased to regret that he had lost all taste
for poetry. I have always admired Ein-
stein for his devotion to the violin. And
Professor Gobind Lai for his delight in
painting little water-colors.

"I sometimes imagined the two were
in love — merely a fancy of mine, but it
shadowed my spirits often, though it
went as swiftly as it came. Pashev, my
idol, was beyond such weakness, and
Katerina was loyal to me.

"It was my task to minister to the two
heads, to see that the pumps and the cells
were functioning as they should. You,
as an engineer, sir, will appreciate the
importance of my task. It was Pashev
who made all the notes, who conversed
with Nicolai and Benno, holding to
their barely-moving lips a microphone
attached to a device strapped to his '"axs.
They spoke of how they felt, what their
reactions were to heat and cold, to the
prick of a pin, the flash of a mirror. They
spoke only of matters of laboratory in-
terest; for them the rest of the world did
not exist. Were they happy, you ask? I
presume so. They were like souls that
had attained Nirvana, beyond good and

THE THIRD INTERNE

109

evil, beyond all feeling save response to
sensory stimuli by eye, ear and the nerves
of the skin.

" 'They never did have much imagina-
tion,’ Pashev said once, coldly, as if dis-
appointed. 'A woman, now — ah, what
help one could get out of a woman!’

"Katerina spoke at once. With the
light of a fanatical devotion for an ideal
in her eyes she spoke to Pashev, offering
herself; nay, insisting tiiat he decapitate
her and add one more chapter to his great
work on the sensory reactions of the head
sans corpus. I froze with horror, then
went mad again. I can still see the pity
on the face of the doctor, the joy and
pride of the master whose pupil has come
up to his highest expectations.

"For weeks I was ill, lost to the world,
and when I returned, feeble, to my work,
Katerina was gone. Her body was gone,
but her head was on the heavy glass
shelf, alongside that of Nicolai.

"You look horror-stricken, sir, and I
can well understand how you feel. Light
your cigar. See, your hand is shaking.
Perhaps you now get an inkling of the
hell I have lived through, and the bitter
disillusion of my life when I found that
my idol was a fiend, a demon out of the
bottomless pit.

"Every night I say good-bye to the
heads of the only human beings I ever
loved. Why did my heart turn against
Pashev? Ah, I must tell you. But don’t
stare at me so, your frighten me. I was
in the laboratory alone one night, going
through with a candle, when I heard a
voice. It was Katerina’s.

" 'Coward!’ she was saying. 'Coward!
Here we all are but you. Ah, what a fool
you were, and blind! I loved only Doctor
Pashev. He seduced me tlie very night I
came.’

"I fled past them with the candle, gib-
bering, my head turned so I shouldn’t

see the pity in the eyes of Nicolai and
Benno, who knew the truth all along.
And upstairs I wondered what they were
saying to each other in the darkness. I
heard them laugh! A laugh of con-
tempt!’’

* * * « «

Y DEAR friend, here I am!’’

In the doorway stood Doctor
Pashev, tall, benevolent and smiling, his
fur coat whitened with snow.

"I am happy to tell you the trapper
will pull through, after all.’’

The pallid young man had risen, then
fell to the floor in a convulsion. It was
an attack, Garshin observed, of hystero-
epilepsy, an interesting case. Pashev
stooped at once and carried the victim out
of the room. When he returned, the
Government inspeaor said to him,
firmly:

"Doctor Pashev, you must allow me to
go into your laboratory for a minute.’’

"Certainly. There is the door, to the
left.”

Garshin entered and moved to the
heavy glass mantelpiece. It held nothing
but three skulls, which he lifted curiously.
He could find no tubes nor wires nor any
attachment. They were old, dust-coverecl,
marked with ink, as if they had been kept
there for years and years. He left the
laboratory, thoughtful. The tale was
naught but a figment of the imagination.

"I suppose,” said Pashev, lighting a
cigarette, "that poor fellow has been tell-
ing you some weird story about heads and
some woman he loved, eh?”

"Yes. He had me on edge for an hour.
I don’t think I was ever so frightened in
my life. Reminded me I had nerves,
after all.”

"He tells die story well,” said Pashev,
sadly, "because he has told it often — to
everyone who comes here. It is rather
pitiful. He came here three years ago

110

WEIRD TALES

with two youths, friends of his, and a
young woman that he loved, to assist me
during that distressful outbreak of the
plague. The three died inside of a week.
The shock to him was permanent. But
he is harmless, and quite a help to me in
the laborator}'.”

A servant entered with a large tray.

"Ah, here comes our belated dinner,”
said Pashev. "Let us sit down. There’s
nothing like a sledge-ride to give a fillip
to one’s appetite. Pigeons and claret! We
do ourselves well, here. Your health, my
dear friend!”

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

B AR’TRAM the lime-bumer, a
rough, heavy-looking man, be-
grimed with charcoal, sat watch-
ing his kiln, at nightfall, while his little
son played at building houses witli the
scattered fragments of marble, when, on
the hillside below them, they heard a
roar of laughter, not mirthful, but slow,
and even solemn, like a wind shaking the
boughs of the forest.

"Father, what is that?” asked the little
boy, leaving his play, and pressing be-
twixt his fatlier’s knees.

"Oh, some drunken man, I suppose,”
answered the lime-bumer; "some merry
fellow from the bar-room in the village,
who dared not laugh loud enough within
doors lest he should blow the roof of the

* A chapter from an abortive romance.

house off. So here he is, shaking his jolly
sides at the foot of Graylock.”

"But, father,” said the child, more
sensitive than the obtuse, middle-aged
clown, "he does not laugh like a man
that is glad. So the noise frightens me!”

"Don’t be a fool, child!” cried his
father, gruffly. "You will never make a
man, I do believe; there is too much of
your mother in you. I have known the
rastling of a leaf startle you. Hark! Here
comes the merry fellow now. You shall
see that there is no harm in him.”

Bartram and his little son, while they
were talking thus, sat watcliing the same
lime-kiln that had been tlie scene of
Ethan Brand’s solitary and meditative
life, before he began his search for the
Unpardonable Sin. Many years, as we

ETHAN BRAND

111

have seen, had now elapsed since that
portentous night when the idea was first
developed. The kiln, however, on the
mountainside, stood unimpaired, and was
in nothing changed since he had thrown
his daric thouglits into the intense glow
of its furnace, and melted them, as it
were, into the one thought that took pos-
session of his life. It was a rude, round,
tower-like structure, about twenty feet
high, heavily built of rough stones, and
with a hillock of earth heaped about the
larger part of its circumference; so that
the blodcs and fragments of marble
might be drawn by cart-loads, and
thrown in at the top. There was an open-
ing at the bottom of the tower, like an
oven-mouth, but large enough to admit
a man in a stooping posture, and pro-
vided with a massive iron door. With the
smoke and jets of flame issuing from the
chinks and crevices of this door, which
seemed to give admittance into the hill-
side, it resembled nothing so much as the
private entrance to the infernal regions,
which the shepherds of the Delectable
Mountains were accustomed to show to
pilgrims.

There are many such lime-kilns in that
tract of country, for the purpose of burn-
ing the white marble which composes a
large part of the substance of the hills.
Some of them, built years ago, and long
deserted, with weeds growing in the va-
cant ground of the interior, which is open
to the sky, and grass and wild-flowers
rooting themselves into the chinks of the
stones, look already like relics of antiq-
uity, and may yet be overspread with the
lichens of centuries to come. Others,
where the lime-bumer still feeds his daily
and night-long fire, afford points of inter-
est to the wanderer among the hills, who
seats himself on a log of wood or a frag-
ment of marble, to hold a chat with the
solitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when
the character is inclined to thought, may

be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as
it proved in the case of Ethan Brand, who
had mused to such strange purpose, in
days gone by, while the fire in this very
kiln was burning.

Tlie man who now watched the fire
was of a different order, and troubled
himself with no thoughts save the very
few that were requisite to his business.
At frequent intervals, he flung back the
clashing weight of the iron door, and,
turning his face from the insufferable
glare, thrust in huge logs of oak, or
stirred the immense brands with a long
pole. Within the furnace were seen the
curling and riotous flames, and the burn-
ing marble, almost molten with the in-
tensity of heat; while without, the reflec-
tion of the fire quivered on the dark
intricacy of the surrounding forest, and
showed in the foreground a bright and
ruddy little picture of the hut, the spring
beside its door, the athletic and coal-
begrimed figure of the lime-burner, and
the half-frightened child, shrinking into
the protection of his father’s shadow.
And when again the iron door was
closed, then reappeared the tender light
of the half-full moon, which vainly
strove to trace out the indistinct shapes of
the neighboring mountains; and, in the
upper sky, there was a flitting congrega-
tion of clouds, still faintly tinged with
the rosy sunset, though thus far down
into the valley the sunshine had vanished
long and long ago.

T he little boy now crept still closer to
his father, as footsteps were heard
ascending the hillside, and a human form
thrust aside the bushes tliat clustered be-
neath the trees.

"Halloo! who is cried the lime-
bumer, vexed at his son’s timidity, yet
half infected by it. "G)me forward, and
show yourself, like a man, or I’ll fling
this chunk of marble at your head!’’

112

WEIRD TALES

"You offer me a rough welcome,”
said a gloomy voice, as the unknown man
drew nigh. "Yet I neither claim nor
desire a kinder one, even at my own fire-
side."

To obtain a distinct view, Bartram
tlirew open the iron door of tlie kiln,
whence immediately issued a gush of
fierce light, that smote full upon the
stranger’s face and figure. To a careless
eye tliere appeared nothing very remark-
able in his aspect, which was that of a
man in a coarse, brown, country-made
suit of clothes, tall and thin, with tlie
staff and heavy shoes of a wayfarer. As
he advanced, he fixed his eyes — which
were very bright — intently upon the
brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld,
or expfxted to behold, some object
worthy of note within it.

"Good evening, stranger,” said the
lime-burner; "whence come you, so late
in tlie day?"

"I come from my search,” answered
the wayfarer; "for, at last, it is finished.”

"Dnmk! — or crazy!” muttered Bartram
to himself. "I shall have trouble with
the fellow. The sooner I drive him away,
the better.”

The little boy, all in a tremble, whis-
pered to his father, and begged him to
shut die door of the kiln, so that there
might not be so much light; for that there
was something in the man’s face which
he was afraid to look at, yet could not
look away from. And indeed, even tlie
lime-bumcr’s dull and torpid sense began
to be impressed by an indescribable some-
thing in that thin, rugged, thoughtful
visage, with the grizzled hair hanging
wildly about it, and those deeply sunken
eyes, whicli gleamed like fires within tlie
entrance of a mysterious cavern. But, as
he closed the door, tlie stranger turned to-
ward him, and spoke in a quiet, familiar
way, that made Bartram feel as if he were
a sane and sensible man, after all.

"Your task draws to an end, I see,”
said he. ’"This marble has already been
burning three days. A few hours more
will convert the stone to lime.”

"Why, who are you?” exclaimed the
lime-bumer. "You seem as well ac-
quainted with my business as I am my-
self.”

"And well I may be,” said the
stranger; "for I followed the same craft
many a long year, and here, too, on this
very spot. But you are a newcomer in
these parts. Did you never hear of Ethan
Brand?”

"The man that went in search of the
Unpardonable Sin?” asked Bartram, with
a laugh.

"The same,” answered the stranger.
"He has found what he sought, and
therefore he conies back again.”

"What! then you are Ethan Brand
himself?” cried the lime-bumer, in
amazement. "I am a newcomer here, as
you say, and they call it eighteen years
since you left the foot of Graylock. But,
I can tell you, the good folks still talk
about Ethan Brand, in the village yonder,
and what a strange errand took him away
from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you
have found the Unpardonable Sin?”

"Even so!” said the stranger, calmly.

"If tlie question is a fair one,” pro-
ceeded Bartram, "where might it be?”

Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own
heart,

"Here!” replied he.

And then, without mirth in his counte-
nance, but as if moved by an involuntary
recognition of the infinite absurdity of
seeking tliroughout tlie world for what
was the closest of all things to himself,
and looking into every heart, save his
own, for what was hidden in no other
breast, he broke into a laugh of scorn.
It was the same slow, heaNy laugh that
had almost appalled the lime-bumer
when it heralded tlie wayfarer’s approach.

W. T.— 7

ETHAN BRAND

113

The solitary mountainside was made
dismal by it. Laughter, when out of
place, mistimed, or bursting forth from a
disordered state of feeling, may be the
most terrible modulation of the human
voice. The laughter of one asleep, even
if it be a little child, — the madman’s
laugh, — the wild, screaming laugh of a
born idiot, — are sounds that we some-
times tremble to hear, and would always
willingly forget. Poets have imagined no
utterance of fiends or hobgoblins so fear-
fully appropriate as a laugh. And even
the obtuse lime-burner felt his nerves
shaken, as this strange man looked in-
ward at his own heart and burst into
laughter that rolled away into the night,
and was indistinctly reverberated among
the hills.

"Joe,” said he to his little son, "scam-
per down to die tavern in the village, and
tell the jolly fellows there that Ethan
Brand has come bade, and that he has
found the Unpardonable Sin!”

T he boy darted away on his errand,
to w'hich Ethan Brand made no ob-
jection, nor seemed hardly to notice it.
He sat on a log of wood, looking sted-
fasdy at the iron door of the kiln. When
the diild w'as out of sight, and his swift
and light footsteps ceased to be heard
treading first on the fallen leaves and
then on the rocky mountain-path, the
lime-burner began to regret his departure.
He felt that the little fellow’s presence
had been a barrier between his guest and
himself, and that he must now deal, heart
to heart, wdth a man who, on his own
confession, had committed the one only
crime for which Heaven could afford no
mercy. That crime, in its indistinct bladc-
ness, seemed to overshadow him. The
lime-burner’s own sins rose up within
him, and made his memory riotous with
a throng of evil shapes that asserted their
kindred with the Master Sin, w'hatever it
W. T.— 8

might be, which it was within the scope
of man’s corrupted nature to conceive and
cherish. They were all of one family;
they went to and fro between his breast
and Ethan Brand’s, and carried dark
greetings from one to tlie other.

Then Bartram remembered the stories
which had grown traditionary in refer-
ence to this strange man, who had come
upon him like a shadow of the night,
and was making himself at home in his
old place, after so long absence that the
dead people, dead and buried for years,
would have had more right to be at
home, in any familiar spot, than he.
Ethan Brand, it was said, had conversed
with Satan himself in the lurid blaze of
this very kiln. The legend had been mat-
ter of mirth heretofore, but looked grisly
now. According to this tale, before Ethan
Brand departed on his search, he had
been accustomed to evoke a fiend from the
hot furnace of the lime-kiln, night after
night, in order to confer with him about
the Unpardonable Sin; the man and tlie
fiend each laboring to frame tlie image
of some mode of guilt which could
neither be atoned for nor forgiven. And,
with the first gleam of light upon the
mountaintop, the fiend crept in at the iron
door, tlaere to abide the intensest element
of fire, until again summoned forth to
share in the dreadful task of extending
man’s possible guilt beyond the scope of
Heaven’s else infinite mercy.

While the lime-burner was struggling
with the horror of those thoughts, Ethan
Brand rose from the log, and flung open
the door of the kiln. The action was in
such accordance with the idea in Bart*
ram’s mind, that he almost expected to
see the Evil One issue fortli, red-hot from
the raging furnace.

"Hold! hold!” cried he, with a tremu*
lous attempt to laugh; for he was
ashamed of his fears, although they over*

114

WEIRD TALES

mastered him. "Don’t, for mercy’s sake,
bring out your Devil now!”

"Man!” sternly replied Ethan Brand,
"what need have I of tlie Devil? I have
left him behind me, on my track. It is
with such half-way sinners as you that he
busies himself. Fear not, because I open
the door. I do but act by old custom, and
am going to trim your fire, like a lime-
burner, as I was once.”

He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more
wood, and bent forward to gaze into the
hollow prison-house of the fire, regard-
less of the fierce glow that reddened upon
his face. The lime-bumer sat watching
him, and half suspected his strange guest
of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at
least to plunge bodily into the flames,
and thus vanish from the sight of man.
Ethan Brand, however, drew quietly back,
and closed the door of the kiln.

"I have looked,” said he, "into many a
human heart that was seven times hotter
with sinful passions than yonder furnace
is with fire. But I found not there what
I sought. No, not the Unpardonable
Sin!”

"What is the Unpardonable Sin?”
asked the Eme-bumer; and then he
shrank farther from his companion, trem-
bling lest his question should be an-
swered.

"It is a sin that grew within my own
breast," replied Ethan Brand, standing
erect, with a pride that distinguishes all
enthusiasts of his stamp. "A sin that
grew nowhere else! The sin of an intel-
lect that triumphed over the sense of
brotherhood with man and reverence for
God, and sacrificed everything to its own
mighty claims! The only sin that de-
serves a recompense of immortal agony!
Freely, were it to do again, would I incur
the guilt. Unshrinkingly I accept the
retribution!”

"The man’s head is turned,” muttered
the lime-bumer to himself. "He may be

a sinner, like the rest of us, — nothing
more likely, — but. I’ll be sworn, he is a
madman too.”

Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at
his situation, alone with Ethan Brand on
the wild mountainside, and was right
glad to hear the rough murmur of
tongues, and the footsteps of what
seemed a pretty numerous party, stum-
bling over the stones and rustling through
the underbrash. Soon appeared the whole
lazy regiment that was wont to infest
the village tavern, comprehending three
or four individuals who had drunk flip
beside the bar-room fire through all the
winters, and smoked their pipes beneath
the stoop through all the summers, since
Ethan Brand’s departure. Laughing bois-
terously, and mingling all their voices
together in unceremonious talk, they
now burst into the moonshine and nar-
row streaks of firelight that illuminated
the open space before the lime-kiln.
Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding
the spot with light, that the whole com-
pany might get a fair view of Ethan
Brand, and he of them.

T here, among other old acquaint-
ances, was a once ubiquitous man,
now almost extinct, but whom we were
formerly sure to encounter at the hotel of
every thriving village throughout the coun-
try. It was the stage-agent. The present
specimen of the genus was a wilted and
smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-
nosed, in a smartly-cut, brown, bobtailed
coat, with brass buttons, who, for a
length of time unknown, had kept his
desk and comer in the bar-room, and was
still pufiing what seemed to be the same
cigar that he had lighted twenty years
before. He had great fame as a dry
joker, though, perhaps, less on accoimt
of any intrinsic humor than from a cer-
tain flavor of brandy-toddy and tobacco
smoke, which impregnated all his ideas

ETHAN BRAND

115

and expressions, as well as his person.

Another well-remembered though
strangely altered face was that of Lawyer
Giles, as people still called him in
courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, in his
soiled shirt-sleeves and tow-cloth trousers.
This poor fellow had been an attorney, in
what he called his better days, a sharp
practitioner, and in great vogue among
the village litigants; but flip, and sling,
and toddy, and cocktails, imbibed at all
hours, morning, noon, and night, had
caused him to slide from intellectual to
various kinds and degrees of bodily labor,
till, at last, to adopt his own phrase, he
slid into a soap-vat. In other words, Giles
was now a soap-boiler, in a small way.
He had come to be but tlie fragment of
a human being, a part of one foot hav-
ing been chopped bflf by an ax, and an
entire hand torn away by the devilish
grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though the
corporeal hand was gone, a spiritual
member remained; for, stretching forth
the stump, Giles stedfastly averred that
he felt an invisible thumb and fingers
with as vivid a sensation as before the real
ones were amputated. A maimed and
miserable wretdi he was; but one, nev'er-
theless, whom the world could not
trample on, and had no right to scorn,
eitb.er in this or any previous stage of his
misfortune, since he had still kept up
the courage and spirit of a man, asked
nothing in charity, and with his one hand
— and that the left one — fought a stern
battle against want and hostile circutn-
stances.

Among the throng, too, came another
personage, who, with certain points of
similarity to Lawyer Giles, had many
more of difference. It was the village
doctor; a man of some fifty years, whom,
at an earlier period of his life, w^e intro-
duced as paying a professional visit to
Ethan Brand during the latter’s supposed
insanity. He was now a purple-visaged.

rude, and brutal, yet half-gentlemanly
figure, with something wild, ruined, and
desperate in his talk, and in all the de-
tails of his gesture and manners. Brandy
possessed this man like an evil spirit,
and made him as surly and savage as a
wild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul;
but there was supposed to be in him such
v/onderful skill, such native gifts of heal-
ing, beyond any which medical science
could impart, that society caught hold of
him, and would not let him sink out of its
reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his
horse, and grumbling thick accents at the
bedside, he visited all the sick-chambers
for miles about among the mountain
towns, and sometimes raised a dying man,
as it were, by miracle, or quite as often,
no doubt, sent his patient to a grave that
was dug many a year too soon. The doc-
tor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth,
and, as somebody said, in allusion to his
habit of swearing, it was always alight
with hell-fire.

These three worthies pressed forward,
and greeted Ethan Brand each after his
own fashion, earnestly inviting him to
partake of the contents of a certain
black bottle, in which, as they averred,
he would find something far better worth
seeking for than the Unpardonable Sin.
No mind, which has wrought itself by
intense and solitary meditation into a
high state of enthusiasm, can endure the
kind of contact with low and vulgar
modes of thought and feeling to which
Etiian Brand was now subjected. It made
him doubt — and, strange to say, it was a
painful doubt — whether he had indeed
found the Unpardonable Sin, and found
it within himself. Tlie whole question on
which he had exhausted life, and more
than life, looked like a delusion.

"Leave me,” he said bitterly, "ye brute
beasts, that have made yourselves so,
shriveling up your souls with fiery
liquors! I have done witli you. Yeats

116

WEIRD TALES

and years ago, I groped into your hearts,
and found nothing there for my pur-
pose. Get ye gone!”

"Why, you uncivil scoundrel,” cried
the fierce doctor, "is that the way you
respond to the kindness of your best
friends.? Then let me tell you the truth.
You have no more found the Unpardon-
able Sin than yonder boy Joe has. You
are but a crazy fellow, — I told you so
twenty years ago, — neither better nor
worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit
companion of old Humphrey, here!”

He pointed to an old man, shabbily
dressed, with long white hair, thin vis-
age, and unsteady eyes. For some years
past this aged person had been wandering
about among the hills, inquiring of all
travelers whom he met for his daughter.
The girl, it seemed, had gone off with a
company of circus-performers; and oc-
casionally tidings of her came to the vil-
lage, and fine stories were told of her
glittering appearance as she rode on
horseback in the ring, or performed
marvelous feats on the tight-rope.

The white-haired father now ap-
proached Ethan Brand, and gazed un-
steadily into his face.

"They tell me you have been all over
the earth,” said he, wringing his hands
with earnestness. "You must have seen
my daughter, for she makes a grand fig-
ure in the world, and everybody goes to
see her. Did she send any word to her
old father, or say when she was coming
back?"

E than brand's eye quailed beneath
the old man’s. That daughter, from
whom he so earnestly desired a word of
greeting, was the Esther of our tale, the
very girl who, with such cold and re-
morseless purpose, Ethan Brand had
made the subject of a psychological ex-
periment, and wasted, absorbed, and per-
haps annihilated her soul, in the process.

"Yes,” murmured he, turning away
from the hoary wanderer; "it is no delu-
sion. 'There is an Unpardonable Sin!”

While these things were passing, a
merry scene was going forward in the
area of cheerful light, beside the spring
and before the door of the hut. A number
of the youth of the village, young men
and girls, had hurried up the hillside, im-
pelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand,
the hero of so many a legend familiar to
their childhood. Finding nothing, how-
ever, very remarkable in his aspect, —
nothing but a sunburnt wayfarer, in plain
garb and dusty shoes, who sat looking
into the fire, as if he fancied pictures
among the coals, — these young people
speedily grew tired of observing him. As
it happened, there was other amusement
at hand. An old German Jew, traveling
with a diorama on his back, was passing
down the mountain-road toward the vil-
lage just as the party turned aside from
it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits
of the day, the showman had kept them
company to the lime-kiln.

"Come, old Dutchman,” cried one of
the young men, "let us see your pictures,
if you can swear they are worth look-
ing at!”

"O yes. Captain,” answered the Jew, —
whether as a matter of courtesy or craft,
he styled everybody Captain, — "I shall
show you, indeed, some very superb pic-
tures!”

So, placing his box in a proper posi-
tion, he invited the young men and girls
to look through the glass orifices of the
machine, and proceeded to exhibit a series
of the most outrageous scratchings and
daubings, as specimens of the fine arts,
that ever an itinerant showman had the
face to impose upon his circle of specta-
tors. 'The pictures were worn out, more-
over, tattered, full of cracks and wrinkles,
dingy with tobacco-smoke, and otherwise
in a most pititable condition. Some pur-

ETHAN BRAND

117

ported to be cities, public edifices, and
ruined castles in Europe; others repre-
sented Napoleon’s battles and Nelson’s
sea-fights; and in the midst of these
would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy
hand, — which might have been mistaken
for the Hand of Destiny, though, in
truth, it was only the showman’s, — point-
ing its forefinger to various scenes of the
conflict, while its owner gave historical
illustrations. When, with much merriment
at his abominable deficiency of merit,
the exhibition was concluded, the Ger-
man bade little Joe put his head into the
box. Viewed through the magnifying-
glasses, the boy’s round, rosy visage as-
sumed the strangest imaginable aspect of
an immense Titanic child, the mouth
grinning broadly, and the eyes and every
other feature overflowing with fun at the
joke. Suddenly, however, that merry face
turned pale, and its expression changed
to horror, for this easily impressed and
excitable child had become sensible that
the eye of Ethan Brand was fixed upon
him through the glass.

’’You make the little man to be afraid.
Captain,” said the German Jew, turning
up the dark and strong outline of his
visage, from his stooping posture. "But
look again, and, by chance, I shall cause
you to see somewhat that is very fine,
upon my word!”

Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an
instant, and then starting back, looked
fixedly at the German. What had he
seen? Nothing, apparently; for a curi-
ous youth, who had peeped in almost at
the same moment, beheld only a vacant
space of canvas.

"I remember you now,” muttered
Ethan Brand to the showman.

"Ah, Captain,” whispered the Jew of
Nuremburg, with a dark smile, "I find it
to be a heavy matter in my show-box, —
this Unpardonable Sin! By my faith,

Captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this
long day, to carry it over the mountain.”

"Peace,” answered Ethan Brand, stern-
ly, "or get thee into the furnace yonder!”

'The Jew’s exhibition had scarcely con-
cluded, when a great elderly dog — who
seemed to be his own master, as no per-
son in the company laid claim to him —
saw fit to render himself the object of
public notice. Hitherto, he had shown
himself a very quiet, well-disposed old
dog going round from one to another,
and, by way of being sociable, offering
his rough head to be petted by any kindly
hand that would take so much trouble.
But now, all of a sudden, this grave and
venerable quadruped, of his own mere
motion, and without the slightest sugges-
tion from anybody else, began to run
round after his tail, which, to heighten
the absurdity of tlie proceeding, was a
great deal shorter than it should have
been. Never was seen such headlong
eagerness in pursuit of an object that
could not possibly be attained; never was
heard such a tremendous outbreak of
growling, snarling, barking, and snap-
ping — as if one end of the ridiculous
brute’s body were at deadly and most un-
forgivable enmity with the other. Faster
and faster, round about went the cur; and
faster and still faster fled the unapproach-
able brevity of his tail; and louder and
fiercer grew his yells of rage and ani-
mosity; until, utterly exhausted, and as
far from the goal as ever, the foolish old
dog ceased his performance as suddenly
as he had begun it. The next moment he
was as mild, quiet, sensible, and respect-
able in his deportment, as when he first
scraped acquaintance with the company.

As may be supposed, the exhibition
was greeted with universal laughter, clap-
ping of hands, and shouts of encore, to
which the canine performer responded by
wagging all that there was to wag of his
tail, but appeared totally unable to repeat

118

WEIRD TALES

his veiy successful effort to amuse the
spectators.

M eanwhile, Ethan Brand had re-
sumed his seat upon the log, and
moved, it might be, by a perception of
some remote analogy bets^'een his own
case and that of this self -pursuing cur, he
broke into the awful laugh, which, more
than any other token, expressed the con-
dition of his inward being. From that
moment, the merriment of the party was
at an end; they stood aghast, dreading
lest the inauspicious sound should be re-
verberated around the horizon, and that
mountain would thunder it to mountain,
and so the horror be prolonged upon their
ears. Then, whispering one to another
that it was late, — that the moon was
almost down, — that the August night
was growing diill, — they hurried home-
ward, leaving the lime-burner and little
Joe to deal as they might witli their un-
welcome guest. Save for these three hu-
man beings, the open space on the hill-
side was a solitude, set in a vast gloom
of forest. Beyond that darksome verge,
the firelight glimmered on tlie stately
trunks and almost black foliage of pines,
intermixed with the lighter verdure of
sapling oaks, maples, and poplars, while
here and there lay the gigantic corpses of
dead trees, decaying on the leaf-strewn
soil. And it seemed to little Joe — a tim-
orous and imaginative child — that the
silent forest was holding its breath, until
some fearful thing should happen.

Ethan Brand thrust more wood into
the fire, and closed tlie door of the kiln;
then looking over his shoulder at the lime-
burner and his son, he bade, rather than
advised, them to retire to rest.

"For m.yself, I cannot sleep,” said he.
"I have matters that it concerns me to
meditate upon. I will w'atch the fire, as I
used to .do in tlie old time.”

"And call the Devil out of the furnace

to keep you company, I suppose,” mut-
tered Bartram, who had been making in-
timate acquaintance witli the black bottle
above mentioned. "But watch, if you
like, and call as many devils as you like!
For my part, I shall be all the better for
a snooze. Come, Joe!”

As the boy followed his father into the
hut, he looked back at the wayfarer, and
the tears came into his eyes, for his tender
spirit had an intuition of the bleak and
terrible loneliness in which this man had
enveloped himself.

W HEN they had gone, Etlian Brand
sat listening to the crackling of the
kindled wood, and looking at the little
spurts of fire that issued through chinks
of the door. These trifles, however, once
so familiar, had but the slightest hold of
his attention, w'hile deep within his mind
he was reviewing the gradual but marvel-
ous change that had been wrought upon
him by the search to which he had de-
voted himself. He remembered how the
night dew had fallen upon him, — how
the dark forest had whispered to him, — -
how the stars had gleamed upon him, — ■
a simple and loving man, watching his
fire in the years gone by, and ever mus-
ing as it burned. He remembered with
what tenderness, with what love and
sympathy for mankind, and what pity for
human guilt and woe, he had first begun
to contemplate those ideas w'hich after-
ward became the inspiration of his life;
with what reverence he had then looked
into the heart of man, viewing it as a
temple originally divine, and, however
desecrated, still to be held sacred by a
brother; with what awful fear he had
deprecated the success of his pursuit, and
prayed that the Unpardonable Sin might
never be revealed to him. Then ensued
that vast intellectual development, whicli,
in its progress, disturbed the counterpoise
between his mind and heart. The Idea

WErnD TALES

119

that possessed his life had operated as a
means of education; it had gone on culti-
vating his powers to the highest point of
which they were susceptible; it had raised
him from the level of an imlettered
laborer to stand on a starlit eminence,
whither the philosophers of the earth,
laden with the lore of universities, might
vainly strive to clamber after him.

So much for the intellect! But where
was the heart? That, indeed, had with-
ered, — had contracted, — had hardened, —
had perished! It had ceased to partake of
the universal throb. He had lost his hold
of the magnetic chain of humanity. He
was no longer a brother-man, opening
the chambers or the dungeons of our
common nature by tlie key of holy
sympathy, which gave him a right to
share in all its secrets; he was now a cold
observer, looking on mankind as the sub-
ject of his experiment, and, at length,
converting man and woman to be his
puppets, and pulling the wires that
moved them to such degrees of crime as
were denianded for his study.

Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He
began to be so from the moment that his
moral nature had ceased to keep the pace
of improvement with his intellect. And
now, as his highest effort and inevitable
development, — as the bright and gor-
geous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of
his life’s labor, — he had produced the
Unpardonable Sin!

"What more have I to seek? what more
to achieve?” said Ethan Brand to himself.
"My task is done, and well done!”

Starting from the log with a certain
alacrity in his gait and ascending the hil-
lock of earth that was raised against the
stone cirounference of the lime-kiln, he
thus reached the top of the structure. It
was a space of perhaps ten feet across,
from edge to edge, presenting a view of
the upper surface of the immense mass of
broken marble with which the kiln was

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WEIRD TALES

heaped. All these innumerable blocks
and fragments of marble were red-hot
and vividly on fire, sending up great
spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft
and danced madly, as within a magic
circle, and sank and rose again, with con-
tinual and multitudinous activity. As the
lonely man bent forward over this terrible
body of fire, the blasting heat smote up
against his person with a breath that, it
might be supposed, would have scorched
and shriveled him up in a moment.

Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his
arms on high. The blue flames played
upon his face, and imparted the wild and
ghastly light which alone could have
suited its expression; it was that of a fiend
on tlie verge of plunging into his gulf of
intensest torment.

"O Mother Earth,” cried he, "who art
no more my Mother, and into whose
bosom this frame shall never be resolved!
O mankind, whose brotherhood I have
cast off, and trampled thy great heart be-
neath my feet! O stars of heaven, that
shone on me of old, as if to light me
onward and upward! — farewell all, and
for ever. Come, deadly element of Fire,
— henceforth my familiar friend! Em-
brace me, as I do thee!"

T hat night the sound of a fearful
peal of laughter rolled heavily
through the sleep of the lime-burner and
his little son; dim shapes of horror and
anguish haunted their dreams, and
seemed still present in the rude hovel,
when they opened tlieir eyes to the day-
light.

"Up, boy, up!” cried the lime-burner,
staring about liim. "Thank Heaven, the
night is gone, at last; and rather than pass
such another, I would watch my lime-
kiln, wide awake, for a twelvemonth.
This Ethan Brand, widi his humbug of an
Unpardonable Sin, has done me no such
mighty favor, in taking my place!”

He issued from the hut, followed by
little Joe, who kept fast hold of his
father’s hand. The early sunshine was
already pouring its gold upon the moun-
taintops; and though the valleys were still
in shadow, they smiled cheerfully in the
promise of the bright day that was hasten-
ing onward. The village, completely shut
in by hills, which swelled away gently
about it, looked as if it had rested peace-
fully in the hollow of the great hand
of Providence. Every dwelling was dis-
tinctly visible; the little spires of the two
churches pointed upward, and caught a
foreglimmering of brightness from the
sun-gilt skies upon their gilded weather-
cocks. The tavern was astir, and the
figure of the old, smoke-dried stage-
agent, cigar in mouth, w'as seen beneath
the stoop. Old Graylock was glorified
with a golden cloud upon his head. Scat-
tered likewise over the breasts of the sur-
rounding mountains, there were heaps of
hoary mist, in fantastic shapes, some of
them far down into the valley, others
high up toward the summits, and still
others, of the same family of mist or
cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of
the upper atmosphere. Stepping from
one to another of the clouds that rested
on the hills, and thence to the loftier
brotherhood that sailed in air, it seemed
almost as if a mortal man might thus
ascend into the heavenly regions. Earth
was so mingled v/ith sky that it was a
day-dream to look at it.

To supply that charm of the familiar
and homely, which Nature so readily
adopts into a scene like this, the stage-
coach was rattling down the mountain-
road, and the driver sounded his horn,
while echo caught up the notes, and inter-
twined them into a rich and varied and
elaborate harmony, of which the original
perforiTicr could lay claim to little share.
The great hills played a concert amon£|

WEIRD TALES

121

themselves, eadi contributing a strain of
airy sweetness.

Little Joe’s face brightened at once.

"Dear father,” cried he, skipping
cheerily to and fro, "that strange man is
gone, and the sky and the mountains all
seem glad of it!”

"Yes,” growled the lime-burner, with
an oath, "but he has let the fire go down,
and no thanks to him if five hundred
bushels of lime are not spoiled. If I catch
the fellow hereabouts again, I shall feel
like tossing him into the furnace!”

With his long pole in his hand, he
ascended to the top of the kiln. After a
moment’s pause, he called to his son.

"Come up here, Joe!” said he.

So little Joe ran up the hillock, and
stood by his fatlier’s side. The marble
was all burnt into perfect, snow-white
lime. But on its surface, in the midst of
the circle, — snow-white too, and thor-
oughly converted into lime, — lay a human
skeleton, in the attitude of a person who,
after long toil, lies down to long repose.
Within the ribs — strange to say — w'as the
shape of a human heart.

"Was the fellow’s heart made of mar-
ble?” cried Bartram, in some perplexity
at this phenomenon. "At any rate, it is
burnt into what looks like special good
lime; and, taking all the bones together,
my kiln is half a bush.el the richer for
him.”

So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted
his pole, and, letting it fall upon the
skeleton, the relics of Ethan Brand were
crumbled into fragments.

Coming soon —

The Eyes oi the Mummy

By Robert Bloch

A gruesomcly powerful llirill-tale of

Egypt, with an unforgettable ending

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► A new thriller by
^ SEABUKY QUINN appears

in WEIRD TALES

► evei’y month i

A A A

Subscribe to Weird Tales

V IRGIL FINLAY’S drawing on the
first page of this issue illustrates a
weird passage of poetry so striking
that Dante Gabriel Rossetti rarJced it as one
of the two Pillars of Hercules of modern
human imagination. It is from Samuel Tay-
lor Coleridge’s imfinished poem, Kubla
Khan. ('The other "pillar” is from Keats’s
Ode to a Nightingale.) Mr. Finlay's imagi-
native full-page illustrations of famous bits
of weird poetry will be a monthly feature in
Weird Tales.

Literary Quality

K. Moor writes from Southport, England:
"One gets so sick of magazines about Fed-
eral agents, terror stories and Western thrill-
ers that it is a wonderful change to fiiid a
WT on a book-stand, with its correa English
and its fluent style. Here you find no 'spit-
ting guns snarling their song of death,’ and
no 'bleeding, mangled bodies oozing blood
from the seams of their clothes.’ Instead one
finds stories of the imagination and the un-
usual that rival H. G. Wells or Edgar Allan
Poe for their clear-cut style and striking sen-
tences. Congratulations on a fine magazine.”

Trudy’s Letter

Gertrude Hemkcn writes from Chicago;
"I alius had an idea that lamas were kindly
fellows — on the order of monks. Mr. Quinn
has again shattered an old belief that these
men are so pious — in his Living Budd-
hess. Werry intrestin’ the manner he de-
scribes for the bad bad Oriental to enter
some unsuspecting viaim in this so-unusual
manner. Yes, indeedy — and once more li’l
pal Jules comes to tlie rescue — no kiddin’,
1 do like that fellow immensely. ... The
story of the issue is all I’ve expeaed it to
be-^nd more. I’ve been curious all these

months to learn by what methods and under
what circumstances would Jirel and North-
west Smith meet. The story is somewhat
lovely — seems as though I awakened from a
fantastic dream after I had read it. The
abstraa lives bro’t to mind the yarns of
Aladdin’s lamp and its genie. The illustra-
tion is superb. Jirel looks like a screen hero-
ine — and the two men seem rather 20th
Century in attire and general y)pearance.
The dancing flame-stars seem like a very
strange rain. Needless to say — The Quest of
the Starstone is outstanding, in my opinion.
Robert Bloch getting oogy again — huh? The
Secret of Sebek was just about that — only
the closing paragraphs didn’t appeal to me.
They were too mellerdramatic — and as is
usual with such — I look ahead to the ending
— and then the whole story is spoiled for
me. You know — I’d like to take Paul Ernst
by the shoulders and give him a good shak-
ing. I feel quite sure that he can write some
mighty fine stories, but something seems to
be held back. In his Dread Summons, I en-
joyed going through the old mansion with
Meller and helping him smash the nice finer-
ies to tiny bits — but I just got plain dis-
gusted at the end. The Lake of Life ended
nicely after a great deal of excitement. The
Guardians weren’t such dumb critters after
all — and I can realize their strange weariness.
Who, in his right senses, wants to live for
ever? This story had ju^ about everything
— excitement, adventure, thrills — the lower
element, savages, scientific explanations, a
strange life back to archaic days, fighting,
weirdness, queerness — just about full of
everything to please most anyone — e\’en ro-
mance.”

Three Rousing Cheers

V. C. Qowe writes from San Frandscoj
"Three rousing cheers for the story entitled

WEIRD TALES

123

The Lake of Life concluded in the Novem-
ber issue. 'Hiree more rousing cheers for
Mrs. Brundage and her front cover. Pay no
attention to the nitwits who clamor against
her masterpieces. They are the most charm-
ing piaures that ever a magazine carried.
Give us more of them.”

Abyss Under the World

E. Jean Magee, of Los Angeles, writes:
"Congratulations to Mr. Paul Surer for his
Abyss Under the World. To my mind, here
is really fine writing: The swinging spur in
silvery light, the color, suspense ancf fare-
well of the priest all carried the reader into
a world of beauty and dreams. Although the
explanation is a natural one, tliis in no way
detrarts from the principal charaaer’s w'eird
adventure — an adventure of the subconscious
mind. Glad to see Clark Ashton Smith is
with us again in the September issue.”

A Valentine

Harry Sivia writes from Palestine, Texas:
"A valentine to Miss Moore and Mr. Kutt-

ner for tliat splendid story. Quest of the
Starstone. Best in the November copy. There
w'as another tale, tliough, a real, honest-to-
God scary yarn that ran a fine race. I refer
to Rex Ernest’s The Inn. Something about
that gave me tlie creeps, ev'en though it had
to end that way. Kuttner’s rejection slip
tale was good, too. Apparently Mr. Kuttner
has known the sting of die editorial veto
and does not particularly clierish the mem-
ory.”

From Way Down Under

William H. Russell, of Wellington, New
Zealand, writes: "I enjoy your magazine and
hardly ever fail to get my copy, though out
here we get our numbers late. The bc-st story
so far in Weird Tales, in my opinion, has
been The Globe of Memories. I would like
to read more in &e same stj’le. I did not
cate so much for The Guardian of the Book;
I must confess it left me rather cold. In
my humble opinion such stories of cosmic
horrors are rather above the average man-in-
the-street life from other planets, and par-

BACK COPIES

Because of the many requests for back issues of Weird Tales, tlie publishers do their best
to keep a sufficient supply on hand to meet all demands. This magazine was established early
in 1923 and there has been a steady drain on the supply of back copies ever since. At present,
we have the following back numbers on hand for sale;

193S

1933

1934

loss

1936

103Y

Jan.

Feb.

Mar.

Apr.

■ f < •

May

June

July

....

Au;;.

....

Sept.

Oct.

Nov.

....

Dec.

Deo.

numbers contain many fascinating stories.

If you are

interested in obtaining

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the list will be as complete as it now is within the next 30 days. The price on all back issues
is 25c per copy. Mail all orders to:

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124

WEIRD TALES

ticularly with such a fantastic theme as
Guardian of the Book; it exceeds the bounds
of aedulity. Such stories as The Last Archer
are narratives concerning everyday things;
and who knows, with the legends we have
of ancient curses, there may be some grain
of fact about them. I will mention another:
I, the Vampire; that story was quite good.
We are all familiar with Hollywood and
with such a novel background, as I have
stated. I like your stories dealing with every-
day affairs. I also read a story some time ago
in which the locale was a little cinema where
a film was screened with dead actresses and
an actor featured in it. More stories of that
kind are just in my street.” [That story was
The Theater Upstairs, by Manly Wade Well-
man. — The Editor.]

A Magazine for Skeptics?

Sylvia B. Baker writes from Fallbrook,
California: "Someone once wrote in the
Eyrie that Weird Tales was a magazine for
dceptics. His idea seemd to be that it would
be harmful to the superstitious. I believe
that the readers who will enjoy it most are
students and thinkers. Witchcraft and sor-
cery interest the psychiatrist. Astronomers
and biologists, who have an imagination, en-
joy interplanetary stories and others which
show the path evolution might have taken.
Among the latter is one of the best stories
you have ever printed, Carnate Crystal.”

To Him the Laurels Belong

Clifford Ball writes from Astoria, New
York; "Although the task of writing a fan-
letter is distasteful to me, I feel compelled
to add my vote to the numbers doubtlessly
already pouring into your office, requesting
that the blue ribbon for the November issue
be awarded to the team of Moore and Kutt-
ner. The Quest of the Star stone was a fast-
moving, interest-holdiqg, well-balanced piece
of work and easily the best story in the cur-
rent issue even if the famed charaaers of
Smith and Jirel are possibly unknown to the
later readers. 1 trust these two authors will
be encouraged to continue their partnership.
They have the knack of producing master-
pieces. But I wish to humbly suggest that
they do not attempt to bring N. S. or J. J.
logrther again, for that might spoil the su-
perb effea of this last story. Not that I
mean they should discontinue the cliaracter-

izations ; either one is too magnificent to al-
low extermination. Robert Bloch’s Secret of
Sebek deserves second place. I admire his
smoothness of description. But the Novem-
ber issue was so good in its entirety I hardly
know just where to praise. The conclusion
of die serial, The Lake of Life, for instance,
exceeds anything I’ve read from Hamilton’s
pen, and I have followed him through other
magazines as well as yours. Last, but not
least — could you allow Mr. Kuttner another
little piece or two of whatever laurels you
might have in stock for his short. The Case
of Herbert Thorp? ’The ending touched me
so; I cannot forgive you for not illustrating
the tale. It should have been done on the
front cover. How I would like to own a
framed picture of a dead editor — clutching a
rejection slip!”

Superb Poem by Howard

H. K. Weiss writes from Boston: '"Thanks
a million for printing Futility by R. E.
Howard in the November issue — it is superb.
Unfortunately ’superb’ has been used in too
many other connections far less vital for it
to be exaaly the word. But it’s about the
order of magnitude. Futility is — in sixteen
lines — the mood that WT is striving for.
It’s completely so. Many of your stories have
come close to it — Lovecraft is most consist-
ently near it — and that is what makes WT
worth buying — because it says something and
hints at so infinitely much more. The reader
takes out of it a portion of undefined knowl-
edge exaaly in ratio to his ability to under-
stand. Thanks again for Futility and for
Weird Tales.”

Grandeur and Horror

James O’Regan writes from Springfield,
Missouri: "A fascinating story is The Voy-
age of the Neutralia. A globe wheeling
madly toward some distant place, there to
find unspeakable grandeur and horror. I
have long enjoyed such a tale as this. "The
author has concorted a well-written tale.
There are several fine descriptive passages.
'This is my first letter to the Eyrie, although
I have read and enjoyed WT for four years.
I was only thirteen when I purchased my first
copy, but I enjoyed your magazine even at
that tender age. During the past four years,
I have read all but three issues of WT.
Now, may 1 please offer a suggestion? I do

WEIRD TALES

125

not care for stories with praaical endings,
and judging from letters I’ve seen in the
Eyrie, other readers are of the same opinion.
Remember, your magazine did not reach its
enviable position by printing such stories.”

The Same Old Tlirill

Charles H. Bert writes from Philadelphia:
"Congratulations on the fine November is-
sue, the best in months in cover and con-
tents. I was delighted with Hypms by the
old master Lovecraft. I’ve read the yarn
many years ago, and rereading it I got the
same old thrill. Lovecraft stories are real
masterpieces of literature. For beauty and
forcefulness of style, few equal them. Please
show some consideration for other authors in
your reprint department. Authors like White-
head, (Sea Change, The Shadows, Jumbee);
Quinn, (Tenants of Broussac, Out of the
Long Ago); B. Wallis, (The Whistling
Monsters, The Abysmal Horror); etc. . . .
I chuckled over The Case of Herbert Thorp.
Better beware, editor, or you may find your-
self in the fourth or some-such dimension
for rejeaing stories for being ‘unconvinc-
ing.’ Dread Summons by Ernst had some
wonderful descriptions and excellent realism.
I derive a certain amount of satisfaaion over
the fate of Herb Metier. Nice end of a rat.
The Inn was the best short short-story I’ve
read in some months. Liked the tridcy, iron-
ic ending. I would like to see more stories
by Mr. Ernst.”

The Three Rover Boys

Qifton Hall writes from Los Angeles: "I
consider Quest of the Starstone by Moore
and Kuttner the best yarn in the November
number. We’ve been waiting a long time for
the return of Jirel and N. W. Smith, and to
have them on the same program is gratifying
indeed. Can we have them soon again ? 'The
conclusion of The Lake of Life takes second
spot. The theme was a trifle threadbare, but
the effea was lusty and vigorous. Quinn’s
Living Buddhess is third best, with de Gran-
din continuing merrily on his spook-chasing
way. I was a little disappointed, on the
other hand, with The Voyage of the Neu-
tralia. I think it might better have been titled
The Three Rover Bo-^s from Planet to Planet.
, . . I’m still carrying the torch for ‘non-
climax-giving-away’ illustrations. There are
a couple of stories in every number the cul-

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WEIRD STORY MAGAZINE

126

WEIRD TALES

minations of which are completely deflated
by a give-away picture. Can anything be
done about it?”

Announce the Repriutd

Lome W. Power writes from Windsor,
Ontario: "I think that many readers will
support me in demanding that reprints be
included in tlie 'coming next month’ list.
It is exasperating to have to wait until the
next month, meanwhile wondering w'hat the
reprint w'ill be. Speaking of reprints, some
of E. F. Benson’s stories would make excel-
lent ones. Paul Ernst’s Dread Summons
grabs first place for November, while Fin-
lay’s illustration for the tale is a 'humdinger.’
Bloch’s usual tale of grisly horror, while in-
dicating originality and literary skill, cannot
compare with his sujserb Shambler from the
Stars. For some reason or otlicr, he has never
been .able to equal that ghoulish masterpiece,
that horrendous and blood-chilling super-tale
of grotesque midniglit fantasy.”

In a Suggesting Mood

Eugene Benefiel, of Los Angeles, writes:
"How about an annual reprint edition of
WT, say of one particular author’s works
selected by popular vote? If the idea takes
hold, I nominate for first issue cither Love-
craft or Howard — preferably Howard in
view of the fact tliat a volume of HPL’s
works is already on the way. And while I
feel in a suggesting mood, how about try-
ing to do away with some of that printing
on the cover of WT? A strip along tlie
bottom of the painting or drawing could be
utilized for the necessary lettering w'ithout
imposing it on the scene pictured by the
artist, and it seems to me that this idea would
be heartily favored by the readers. I have
noticed that many of your writers — not, of
course, your topnotchers — feel they must
rationalize or explain the weird phenomena
they ijitroduce into their tales. Tliis, how-
ever, can be found in any pulp detective
thriller, and it is a shame to dissipate a well-
built spine-tingling effea by telling the
reader that it was accomplished by mirrors.
C. L. Moore, Bloch, Smith, Quinn, Hasse,
and the late masters Howard and Lovccraft
do not and did not destroy their effectiveness
by lamely ending with a ‘proper’ explana-
tion, and they are easily fihe class of the
weird fiction field,'’

Unguarded Moments

Franldin Earle Ham writes from Desert
Center, California: ''It has been with a great
deal of entertainment and pleasure that I
have read your fine magazine for the past
three years. With invisible fingers it seems
to reach into that thesaurus of w'ill-o’-
the-wisp, fantasmic dreams whiclt, to die
dreamer, are vital, pulsing realities, perhaps
matters of life and death; there to pluck
and bring into sliarp focus some of the weird
beauty and horror that the subconscious self
experiences at unguarded moments.”

Dinosaur Bones

Dorothy C. Greene, of Valhalla, New
York, writes: "Have been reading WT ever
since it starred away back in the days when
I lived in a cave chewing on dinosaur bones
and cave-bear steak. This is my first letter
to you, however, and it is an urgent request,
practically a demand, for a big, fat quarter-
ly such as you published once in 1924, only
bigger, and with piles of illustrations. Am
enclosing my list of well-remembered stories
which I would certainly love to read again.
. . . When this bumper edition appears for
sale, you will hear my whoop of pure joy all
the way across the continent, so please do
not keep me waiting for it longer than you
can help.”

Circumventing the Hero

Robert Bloch writes from Milwaukee:
"I noted Mr. Wilson’s homily in the Eyrie,
widi his accusation that in WT the hero
always wins. Might I politely toss the
gauntlet? Let’s get down to cases and see
what tlie Good Book reveals about Virtue
Triumphant. Take the case of Henry Kutt-
ner . . . not legally, of course. He can be
convicted of murdering his protagonists right
and left. He even has the effrontery to kill
me, without so much as asking my permis-
sion. Friend August Derleth seldom slips
up on a chance to knife tlie charaaers in his
tales. Certainly Clark Ashton Smith writes
many of his splendid yarns with little
thought of 'the hero wins.’ Earl Peirce ex-
hibits definitely sadistic tendencies in his
stories; Hazel Heald swings a mean bludg-
eon ; Long and Wandrei always have been the
coroner’s little helpers. Such is the case, as
every informed reader knows, with Love-
craft’s work — indeed, it is silly to think of a,
consummate artist like H. P. L. trifling witfi

WEIRD TALES

127

the puerile notion of writing a tale about a
'hero.’ Whitehead never bothered with ‘pulp
limitations;’ H. Warner Munn’s immensely
popular Werewolf of Ponkert tales were
founded on the fact that his demon in-
variably triunmhed; his torture studies were
superbly indifferent to hero-cliches. Francis
Flagg, Mary Elizabeth Counselman, Frank
Owen, and many others never spared the rod
when necessary. And there have been mul-
tiple similar examples. I fear that Mr. Wil-
son has taken but a superficial survey of the
publication, or else he would reconsider this
rash indiament when so many citations to
the contrary may be used. To my mind, the
chief excellence of WT is and always has
been that undue truckling to a 'hero wins’
formula is not a policy at all.”

From an Old-time Reader
Ralph Rayburn Phillips, of Portland, Ore-
^n, writes; "I desire to thank you for giv-
ing regularly to discriminating readers such
excellent stories as appear in Weird Tales.
I have been reading your splendid magazine
since it was first published, never miss an
issue. I have saved all of my copies and
value them highly. You never have disap-
pointed your readers; you have maintained
the same high standard and have given us
the very best weird stories. Many of your
contributing writers are brilliant; some have
considerable mystical and occult knowledge
as I well know, for I have been a student
of these subjects and of Eastern philos-
tmhy for years. . . . The quality of your
iUustrations in Weird Tales is very high.
Virgil Finlay is truly a master, his teAnique
is most unusual, his work is both beautiful
and weird. Margaret Brundage’s covers are
often beautiful; the June, 1933, cover was
exquisite, a masterpiece, jade and black with
a faultless female figure, nude of course, but
as it should be. There is something funda-
mentally wrong with people who objea to
nude figures; tliey are not advanced and can
have no place in the Golden Age that is to
come. . . . And now I want to express my
appreciation for a new and different type of
story by Seabury Quinn: Strange Interval.
Please let us have more different stories by
tfiis very able writer. The omnipotent Jules
de Grandin who regularly vanquishes all the
Powers of Darkness that come from every-
where to infest Harrisonville, N. J., grows
tiresome. John Flanders in The Mystery of

NEXT MONTH

The Goddess
Awakes

By Clifford Ball

W HEN "The Thief of Forthe”
was published in Weird Tales
last July, a torrent of letters poured in
to the editor’s desk, entreating, de-
manding, and insisting that the intrep-
id hero of that story be brought back
in other tales for the readers of this
magazine. Yielding to the pressure of
his admirers, Clifford Ball has brought
the tliief of Forthe back in a weird
novelette entitled "The Goddess
Awakes.”

T his is a striking weird novelette,
eery and fantastic and intensely
gripping, about a sinister stone idol in
the form of a black panther, and a
race of women warriors. Those of you
who have read Mr. Ball’s two previous
stories in this magazine, '"rhe TTiief of
Forthe” and "Duar the Accursed,”
will not want to miss this fascinating
novelette. 'This is not a sequel, but is
a story complete in itself. It will ap-
pear in its entirety

in the February issue of

WEIRD TALES

on sale January 1st

To avoid missing your copy, clip and mail this
coupon today for SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION

WEIRD TA1E8
840 N. Mlehlgan Ato.

Chicago, Dl*

Enclosed find $1.00, for which send me the next
five issues of WETRD TALES, to begin with the
February issue. (Special offer void unless remit-
tance is accompanied by coupon.)

Name

Address

aty state

128

WEIRD TALES

the Last Guest, October, 1935, gave us a
story of horror that resembles the works of
the old masters Poe and Bierce. Let’s have
more from John Flanders. H. P. Lov'ecraft
is the modern master of weird fiaion writing
in a cLiss by himself ; his stories of old New
England, wlicre I was born, make me wish
to return and explore some of the old towns.”

New Zealand Discovered

Roy B. Burdett, of Auckland, New Zea-
land, writes: "It sure took you a long time
to find out that there is such a place as
N. Z. ! Anyway, we folks out here have been
getting WT every month since January this
year, and 1 guess that we must be thankful
for tliat much. Being a science-fiction fan
first and foremost, it was through that type
of literature tli.at I first heard of WT. I
have read (or I should say, have tried to
read) some of die other pulp mags that
print a lot of mystery drivel, and really it
was quite revolting. But then a Stf pen-pal
of mine who is also a rabid WT fan sent me
out a huge bunch of back numbers and con-
verted me. I have been going to write for
a long time, but it took the July issue with
its Finlay cover and illustrations to give me
that final urge. I cannot express in cold
print my praise of Finlay, but his style and
tones are admirably suited to the taste of
your publication. Inspiration is in his work,
and his nudes are beautiful v.'ichout a trace
of vulgarity. As with all other fans, my
idol was H. P. L., and although I have
only read about eight of his works, I am
beginning to realize the seriousness of his
passing. I think tlrat C. A. Smith made a truly
magnificent gesture in writing that symbolic
poem. To H. P. L. I am a keen admirer of
the mercurial Frcncliman J. dc Grandin, and
I hope to read another of his exploits in the
exceptionally near future. I have noticed
that a regular contributor to the Eyrie is
Miss Gertrude Hemkcn, and her quaint
spelling. 'Vv'ell, I re.td back somewhere in
my back numbers, where some guy flew off
the handle about it. I say, keep on with it,
'Trudy;' your letters are a humorous relief
from the more serious and more concise let-
ters. Clifford Ball, Robert Bloch and C. L.
Moore are the writers I like most, but it is
a difficult job trying to put one author be-
fore another, as they are all so good.”

Ups and Downs

Charles Waldman, of Far Rockaway, New
York, writes: "I’ve just finished the October
issue of Weird Tales and I’ve been disap-
pointed in it. Keller’s Tiger Cat especially
is, to my way of thinking, an unweird, silly
yarn. Your issues have peculiar ups and
downs. I’ve noticed. One month good, next
bad. 'The September issue was excellent,
even the cover surpassed M. Brundage’s
usual efforts. According to formula there-
fore the next issue, November, should be
outstanding.”

Concise Comments

Henry Hasse, of Indianapolis, writes:
"Eve noticed that your last seven or eight re-
prints have all been from past issues of WT.
The selections were admirable, but there’s
no reason why you should delve exclusively
into past issues for the reprint stories. There
are still a great many outside stories worthy
of your reprint department, which you could
make into one of the best parts of the maga-
zine.”

Dorothy Hoyt, of New York City, writes:
"Jirel and Northwest Smith were all they
should have been. Quest of the Starstone
was worth waiting for. My heart is set on
77tore Northwest Smith stories. Please.”

Jack Williamson writes from New Mex-
ico: "Keller’s Tiger Cat, in tlie current is-
sue, is a swell piece of work. It has the ar-
tistic simplicity that makes his best things
great.”

Nils H. Frome writes from Fraser Mills,
British Columbia: "I always get a kick out
of stories like The Inn — mysterious happen-
ings that, like everything else in the world,
don’t leave you with more than a hint of
explanation. Life is like that — only a much
better story if you can read it right.”

Norman Garrison, of Bridgeton, New Jer-
sey, writes: "Just a line to tell you your
magazine is getting better with the passing
of years. Your art work is wonderful, espe-
cially Finlay’s. Continue on your road to a
still better magazine.”

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